The Potions Cabinet
by Kidan
Summary: Apparently, behavior these days is to have a 'one-shots' story, so this is a dumping ground for one-offs and random scenes that I've written. And they're free to a good home.
1. The Bookstore

Harry work up, and glanced at the ceiling. A smile slipped onto his face. He firmly considered any morning that he did not wake up at the Dursley's was a good morning. And waking up in the Leaky Cauldron after causing Aunt Marge to expand and float away was an even better thing than the normal not waking up at the Dursley's.

Still, he had things to do, and a shopping district to explore. He knew that he would be finishing up his History of Magic essay later that afternoon at the ice cream shop, but wanted to look around at some of the other stores first.

A short while later, he was walking out the back door and into the alley itself. Crowds of early shoppers pushed around him, as the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley washed over him. He grinned and began walking, glancing at the various store fronts as he did so.

A few feet past Ollivander's the Alley shifted to the left and he turned down that way. Ahead, he could see a small little park area, but off to the right was an odd store front that he had not visited before. Of course that was true for a lot of the stores in the alley.

Shrugging, he entered the shop. A small jingle rang out as the door swung open, and he stepped into the building. It was darker inside, and he had to blink a few times to allow for his eyes to adjust from the morning sun.

He inhaled, and could smell dust and old books.

Finally, his eyes had adjusted and he glanced around, seeing shelves of older books to one side, and racks of other things off to the back of the store. Near the front was a counter with biscuits and scones displayed.

"Hermione would love this place," he muttered to himself as he walked deeper into the store.

The first section was one on transfiguration. He frowned, not really interested in school books at the moment, and went deeper into the store. After another few minutes of searching, he found what he would consider the fiction section.

He could not help but smile as he recognized a number of the titles as being muggle books. There were three whole shelves detailing the adventures of Merlin, and another two shelves on someone named Gyfarwydd. Then a third case filled with books detailing the adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

He turned a corner, and something at the bottom of the case, on the lowest shelf caught his eye. He bent down, and stared hard at the offending book. An uneasiness twisted in his chest. Confusion and concern ate at him.

Hesitantly he reached out and rubbed the gilded letters slightly, hoping that the letters would change.

When nothing happened, he pulled the first book off the shelf, and stared at the title. He blinked.

Then blinked again.

Finally, he pinched himself.

No matter what he did, the name of the book stubbornly stayed the same: Tommy Riddle and the Stone of Giramphiel.

He blew out a strong breath, and cracked open the book. Slowly, he read the story of a young half-blood wizard that was being raised in a muggle orphanage, and is introduced to the Wizarding World by the strange teacher, and gets to go to Hogwarts. The story continues, as he finds out that the Headmaster had hidden the ancient Stone of Giramphiel, which apparently was a magic stone that granted strength, bravery and charm to its holder, inside the third floor of the castle in an effort to keep it from the hands of the evil wizard, Grindelwald. The story continued, as Tommy discovered the secrets over the course of the year, culminating in a climatic battle, in which the stone was destroyed, and Grindelwald being banished from the castle.

Harry closed the book and stared at it. He closed his eyes, and gave his head a sharp shake.

Opening, them, he glanced at the next title in the apparent series. Tommy Riddle and the Hidden Spider.

Then the third. Tommy Riddle and the Prisoner of Nuremburg. He flipped through the last few pages, and noted that the prisoner referenced in the title was Tommy Riddle's maternal uncle, who had been imprisoned for muggle-baiting.

Finally, Harry grabbed the last book off the shelf. The title was haunting. Tommy Riddle and the Four Treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

He glanced through the book, at how Tommy and his group of friends had to gather artifacts from a war-ravaged Germany in order to save the world from Grindelwald's depredations. The book ended with Tommy sacrificing himself in a German bunker in order to make Grindelwald mortal once again.

Harry frowned at the book, and then grabbed one of each.

There was something off about all of these. Worse, was the way that his life seemed to shadow them. A quick glance at the copyright page indicated that this series had been published by a company called Avarshina Publishing.

As he headed towards the front of the store, anther book caught his eye. Harry Potter and the Dragon of Dinkerway.

He frowned. Those books were a nuisance in his opinion. Then a horrifying thought occurred to him. He grabbed the book, and flipped it open. There on the copyright page, was another damning name: Avarshina Publishing.

Slowly, he replaced that book, and then glanced around the shop. For a moment, he wondered if he should really get these books. Then decided that there were too many parallels with his life to not do so. He had to read them. He had to know.

He also had to find out who owned this Avarshina Publishing.

Why were they profiting off his name. And why had they published what appeared to be a version of his first year adventures being performed by the killer of his parents.

Making up his mind, he carried the books to the front.

He had too many questions, and the only person he trusted at the moment to help him answer them was Hermione.


	2. Expected Reactions

Harry Potter shivered. Unusual noises rippled through the night. Sounds that he was unfamiliar with. Things such as the snoring of his cousin and uncle. Then there was the rain. It beat down upon the roof and the walls. An drumbeat that varied its tempo and strength moment by moment; and often counter-parted by the crashing sound of thunder.

Again Harry shivered, and tried to find some comfort from the threadbare sheet that he had been given for a blanket.

The night was cold, unexpectedly so considering that it was the evening before his eleventh birthday, which was in the middle of summer. Had this been a normal birthday, then he would still be in his cupboard under the stairs.

Of course that was before the mysterious letters had started appearing.

Before Uncle Vernon's mad dash across the country trying to flee those letters. An insane attempt to hide from someone who not only knew that Harry's bedroom was the cupboard under the stairs, but who could hide those self-same letters in the uncracked eggs!

He missed the cupboard. It was safe there. The walls were always close to hand, and not so far away. No one was near him, and he knew he could sleep without any of the Dursley's hurting him while he was asleep. After all, the sound of the door being unlocked would always wake him.

Harry just shook those thoughts away, he knew that nothing good could come from such thoughts. Instead he sighed, and stared at the cold and dirty hearth that he was laying in front of. He reached out with a shaky hand and drew a cake in the cold ashes.

A loud noise from the bedroom where his aunt and uncle slept startled him; it was the shifting squeal of metal springs. He froze and looked that way hurriedly. His hand hovered over his drawing, ready to wipe it out of existence at the hint of additional movements from the bedroom.

Five tense minutes later, he turned back to the ashes and dirt and hesitantly added the eleven candles to the top of the cake. He glanced at his watch, and saw that there was less than a minute until midnight.

Just one more minute and he could mark it down as another year that he had survived while living with his relatives.

And despite his relatives almost obsessive need to appear normal, surviving that year and the nine that had come before was nothing if not miraculous.

After all, he was the Freak.

The other.

The unwanted, and unneeded orphan whose entire existence was a blight on right living people the country over. His lot in life was to be the scapegoat for whatever troubles afflicted his uncle. To be pushed and kicked and hit, and then tossed aside so that he could crawl away and hide in his cupboard.

Harry accepted this as his due. After all he knew he was a freak. He had experienced his freakiness too many times not too know that. He had done too many things with his freakishness not too know that.

Things such as suddenly appearing on the roof of the school while being chased by Dudley and his gang. Or the times his hair would grow back overnight after his aunt would shave him bald with the exception of a lock to cover his scar.

Then there were the times when he would heal himself. When he could watch the bones of his arms or legs shift back into their correct shapes, when he could watch the burns or cuts knit themselves together leaving just the summer of old scar tissue.

Of course, there were other things he had done. Tripping Dudley or Piers with just a thought, from a dozen feet away, as if he had pushed both boys hard. Hiding in a corner and watching as the boys' eyes just shifted over him, as if he was invisible. The times that he had managed to unlock his cupboard when he desperately needed to use the toilet or had not eaten in two or three days.

And finally, there were the times he could not really remember. The times when he felt something grip his chest and squeeze, and could feel something that raced across his skin and his hair. That _something_ which would even make his Uncle step back and look at him with fear and not just loathing.

There were reasons that no one in Little Whinging really spoke with him. Sometimes adults would speak _AT_ him, but never to him.

He knew he was the Freak. The Other. He wasn't like everyone else. If they were human, then he wasn't. If he was, then they were not.

He knew this, and accepted it.

That knowledge had been burned and beaten into him thoroughly by his sixth birthday. There was no escape from it. From the sheer fact of his aloneness. His difference.

Another glance at his watch and he noticed that it was only ten more seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

"Happy birthday to me," he whispered in a small quiet voice.

Then he blew across the drawing, scattering the ashes across the hearth, erasing the image from existence.

He did not close his eyes and make a wish. He knew better than that. There was nothing out there that would grant his wishes and dreams. There was nothing and no one out there that cared or really worried for him. He had learned that hard lesson by his fourth birthday.

Just as he was about to roll over and finally go to sleep, there was a thunderous bang which shook the entire cottage. For a moment, he thought it was thunder. That the storm had finally seen fit to knock the beat up, worn down, shack to the ground.

Dust settled from the ceiling, and Harry sat up. He looked around the room quickly, and then his eyes shifted and he found he was just staring at the door; confusion and fear twisting in his chest.

This was something different! Something that was not normal. Which meant that it was something he would be punished for.

A quick glance to his left showed that Dudley was sitting up from where he has been sleeping on the couch. His cousin's eyes were open wide, and he too was focused entirely on the door.

Another of those explosive booms shook the house, drowning out the sound of both rain and thunder.

Then another, and with it the old door crashed open.

Harry's eyes followed the door as it fell inwards. It slammed against the floor and the resulting crash sounded empty and hollow after those thunderous booms.

He looked back up, and shifted backwards. He blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Standing in the doorway was a massive hulking shadow that seemed to take up the entire opening.

Again fear twisted in Harry's chest, souring his stomach, even as he felt bile burning his throat. He knew better than to vomit though, the only thing worse that throwing up was being forced to eat it up. That had happened when he had the temerity to throw up the food and spoilt milk that Aunt Petunia gave him.

Even as that thought flickered through his mind, that dark shape began moving, coming into the room.

The white flare of lightning lit up the night. The bright, glare highlighted the impossibly tall man who seemed to take up all of the doorway and more.

Dark brown hair and beard seemed to merge with the dirty brown leather jacket. Beady, black eyes flickered, and seemed to twitch back and forth as the man looked about the room. Warm smells of wet earth and manure were carried on the rain, and made Harry's nose twitch.

The man stepped into the room, and looked down at the door. His shoulders shook once with what Harry assumed was a suppressed chuckle.

"Err, sorry 'bout that," he muttered as he bent down and picked the door back up and gave out a good shove into the door frame. His voice was rough and unlearned, with a deep Scottish accent. It was the harsh voice of an uncultured outdoors-man, and Harry instinctively shifted further into the darkness near the fireplace.

"Y-y-y-you!" Vernon's voice shattered the night, and Harry tensed up further. He glanced towards his uncle, and his eyes widened as he noticed the shotgun the man now held. Vernon ignored Harry, and continued yelling at the tall man. "You just can't come breaking in here!"

The man glanced at Vernon, and took a step towards him.

"Shut it, ya great prune. I'm 'ere to deliver 'Arry's letter."

Harry shivered. This was about _him_! There would be no escaping this when all was said and done. His uncle would ensure that. Or worse, Vernon was going to give him to the man.

"No!" Vernon yelled again. His voice twisting higher and louder. "I refuse! We're not letting him be taken away and taught that...that freakishness! We've tried out best to beat it out of him, but no! We refuse!"

Vernon shoved the gun forward, and the man reached out and bent the barrel upwards, all while pulling the gun towards him ever so slightly. The metal squealed for a moment, before there was an explosion of gunpowder. Flames and shards of metal twisted around the room.

They sliced through all of the adults and Dudley.

Harry curled himself into a tighter ball as he only hoped the sliver of warm fire that had danced past his ear moments earlier had just been his imagination.

He scurried further back into the corner by the fireplace, trying to hide in the darkness. The ache and fear and emotion in is chest twisted tighter, even as he curled further into a ball.

Dudley thumped down to the ground, and Harry's eyes tracked him as he fell.

Blood pooled beneath the larger boy, spreading not in great spurts but like a dropped glass. Or from the hose when the water had been turned off. It moved slowly. Evenly.

A shifty silence filled the room. A noiselessness broken only by the thundering of Harry's heart and the storm that still raged outside the shack.

Harry watched his cousin in that silence. He strained to listen for something. What that something was, he did not know.

He stood, fear gripped him again, twisting at his chest. Slowly, he moved closer to his cousin. He stood over him, watching the boy's body.

It was still. Instinctively Harry knew that this was different. There was nothing left here. His right hand reached out and grabbed his left arm. He rubbed the arm, his fingers flickering over a long thin scar that wound its way up the underside of his arm. That was one of the few marks that had been left on him were someone could see. Of course, it had happened in the winter, when he had to wear long sleeves and coats all the time, so even then, no one saw it until it had healed. That scar had been given to him, because Vernon had seen his freakishness push his cousin slightly. Who knew what Vernon would do to Harry now that whatever had happened to Dudley had happened.

His lips twisted for a moment, and he reached out with the toe of his taped-together trainers and nudged his cousin.

It was like nudging one of those big bags of rice at the grocers.

Harry shook with suppressed emotion.

"This is not good," he muttered. "Not good at all..."

Harry stepped around the pool of blood from Dudley and went over towards the adults.

His aunt and uncle had collapsed into a single pile, while the large man was a pile all to himself. All three of them had burns and holes on their clothes, hands and faces. Harry stared at a chunk of twisted metal that had embedded itself into one of his aunt's eyes.

Harry knelt down closer to his aunt and uncle. His head shifted slightly, leaning to the right, as he watched them. His green eyes stared unblinkingly, and he held his breath for a long moment.

They did not move. They were as still as Dudley.

Harry's whole frame shuddered and shook for a moment.

That strange emotion twisted in his chest. It fought against the bindings he had placed on it.

Harry stood up, and looked around the room. Trying to find something familiar; something safe. He spied a cabinet.

He walked over to it, and dragged all the pots and pans out of it, and then crawled in, pulling the doors closed behind himself.

Exhaling, he felt the emotions in his chest release slightly with the familiar feeling of an enclosed space. This was not his cupboard, but he could be safe here. Safe from the explosions and the still forms of his aunt and uncle, and even safe from impossibly big men with beady eyes and dirty hair and clothes.

Silence fell onto the shack once again.

For a moment, even the rain seemed to hold its breath. The silence was pregnant with possibilities.

Expectant.

Waiting.

The expectation had built to a crescendo pitch with it was shattered. A single sound, one which no one would have expected to find in a room which held four dead bodies.

A giggle.

It was a sound of innocence. One of light and brightness and good times. Yet, it cut off harshly, in the middle. Stopped suddenly to allow that silence to hang over the charnel house that the shack had become.

Yet this silence was different. Its expectation was tense and harsh, as if the person who had giggled expected yelling or something to happen because of that giggle. As if the person who had giggled expected something dark and foul to fall because of the sheer joy and light which the giggle represented.

The silence stretched. One minute. Two.

Finally, it came again. And again.

A crack of thunder acted as a signal for the rain to resume and for those giggles to slip into honest laughter. Laughter of release and freedom and the knowing that something was finally going to be different and new.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, shotguns can explode if the barrel is plugged in some fashion (such as the 90 degree bend Hagrid gave it) or even if the shells are higher gauge than the barrel is rated for (less likely with commercially loaded shells, but an older, unmaintained gun that's been stressed repeatedly over years would be more susceptible). That said, the sheer carnage depicted herein, and caused by this explosion, is unlikely.


	3. A Question of Summer Reading

Bright sunlight streamed through a dirty window. The light, left a square of yellow-white light glowing on the brown carpet of the room behind that window. The room itself was inconsequential, merely the smallest bedroom of four in a modest house located in a suburb of London called Little Whinging. Brown carpet, pale yellow walls, a small dresser, an almost smaller desk, and a camping cot were the biggest things which could be seen in the room. There were other things-a mess of broken toys and electronics, a collection of brand new, never before read books, a couple of rolls of parchment on the desk, and a young teenaged boy on the cot itself.

The boy was thin, almost skeletal, with pale skin, and messy, black hair which made his skin appear even paler. He currently slept on his stomach, his face away from that beam of light, that slowly made its way towards him.

His sleeping attire consisted solely of a pair of boxers, which left his back exposed to the world. That back was crisscrossed with thin white scars. A collection of knotted, raised tissue. Had he ever been asked where they had come from, the boy in question would have replied that they were a ninth birthday gift from his uncle.

Any reasonable person would wonder why. What could possess this boy's uncle to do such a thing to him.

The simple answer is that said uncle hated this boy.

The longer answer is that the uncle is scared.

The uncle was scared, because this boy is a wizard. A member of that small subset of the populace who are able to harness and manipulate a form of energy most commonly called magic. The uncle was afraid of the magic and power, hidden by the emaciated frame of the boy; terrified of what it could be used for, and how it could so easily destroy him, and his family.

Sadly, this was a fear implanted in said uncle, by means of a small-minded prank played on the uncle by the boy's father.

Then that fear was strengthened when the boy, as a young child, had a bout of accidental magic that broke a teacup in the uncle's hand. As the fear grew the uncle quickly became angry and began to hate the boy.

This in turn lead to a sequence of events where the boy had become the freak; the other. An outsider within their family. Someone from beyond the walls of their civilized, _normal _world. It was all too easy to hate, and to hurt.

Yet for the horror in which he was raised, this boy has turned out far better than he had any right to.

Had he been awake, one would have been to see the intelligence, honesty and honor shining in the boy's eyes. He was a young man that acted with an almost instinctive nobility.

Which, is a good thing, for this boy is Harry Potter.

The door to the room, swung open; its well-oiled hinges allowing it to move without a sound. In the doorway stood a thin woman. She had thin, blond hair, which appeared almost stringy, where it hung in a limp ponytail against her long neck. Blue eyes, the exact same shape as Harry's, looked down an upraised nose at the boy; they were cold and cruel, and a slight sneer flickered across her face; a slight twitch of her left upper lip, that quickly dropped back down.

Her hands were holding onto her hips as everything about her posture and bearing expressed the anger and disgust which roiled within her as she looked at her sleeping nephew.

"Boy!"

At the screech of his aunt, Harry Potter jerked awake. It was a twitchy, tightening of his body, coupled with an instinctive turn towards the sound of her voice. He had forgotten that he was sleeping on the cot, and not the four-poster bed he was used to at Hogwarts. An act of forgetfulness which meant that he dropped off of the too small cot that was his bed. As he landed, a thick, heavy, transfiguration book smacked onto the top of his head, before hitting the floor with a thud.

Harry looked up at his aunt, confused slightly at why she would be standing in his doorway this early in the morning.

"Boy," she hissed at him, her tone a mixture of command and disgust. "You will clean Dudder's room for him today, and then you'll weed the garden and paint the shed."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied with a sigh and a nod of his head..

"And I don't want to hear any cheek from you today either. Now get to work."

Petunia watched him for a moment more, one eye twitching slightly before she turned away from him, and stomped down the stairs.

Harry watched her leave, anger and hunger churning in his chest. Standing, he let out a short sigh, as he closed the door in order to get dressed for the day. As he did, his stomach growled loudly; a gurgling sound that Harry fully expected to get use to during his time at Privet Drive. After all, it was the third day of the summer break, and the only thing he had had to eat since the snack cart on the Express was a tin of cold soup.

In a matter of minutes, he had dressed, and done his morning routines. He stared out the window for a long moment, wondering when his owl would be arriving, and if she would have a letter from Hermione when she did.

Pushing that from his mind, he turned away and opened his bedroom door. Quietly, in an effort to not attract the attention of the rest of his relatives, he left his small room, and went to the garage to grab a box, and a couple of trash bags.

Soon he was standing in the doorway to his cousin's room; a shudder of distaste wracked his body as he looked around the room. Dirty clothes were all over the floor, alongside empty food packages, and dirty dishes. The heavy cloying stench of incense competed with sweat and the smell of rotten food; a miasma which hung on the air, nearly overpowering the acrid tinge of cigarettes.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment fighting against both nausea and remembrances of his classes on divination. Once his stomach had settled, he began sorting the filth that his cousin lived in. He carried loads of dirty laundry to the garage, piles of dishes to the kitchen and threw the empty crisp and candy wrappers into one of the trash bags.

It was while cleaning the floor in that he found them. They were a set of objects that he had never expected to see in his cousin's bedroom. Three books, almost negligently tossed into a corner of the room, hiding underneath two pairs of jeans and a mustard yellow jumper.

He read the titles quickly, interest flaring into life as he did so. It almost felt like a compulsion as he traced the writing of the first book. Bold red letters across a black background which read: _The Anarchist Cookbook_. He eyed the other two, smiling at the amusing names of _Steal This Book _and _The Poor Man's James Bond_.

Picking up _Steal This Book _he opened it to the table of contents, and his eyes widened slightly at the list of topics.

Apparently, it covered subjects ranging from finding or stealing food and money to first aid and explosives. A quick glance at the other two's table of contents lead him to discover that they covered similar topics. Harry silently watched the books for a moment, his fingers still tracing the blood red lettering that spelled out _The Anarchist Cookbook. _After a few minutes of thought, he set them to the side.

There was something important within these books. Something he needed.

He knew this.

He understood that this was a defining moment for him. It was an instinctive urging, a whisper of disquiet in the back of his mind. That same whisper that would twist and coil in his brain as he faced the various dangers at Hogwarts.

With that in mind, he quickly finished picking up the dirty dishes, clothes and trash from within his cousin's room. Despite finding many broken toys, records, and VCR tapes the only other thing of interest was a small paperback book entitled _Ender's Game_. Harry had quickly added that to his stack of books, as he wondered if Dudley had actually read these things, or if one of his gang had left them here. After all, all of Dudley's gang knew that Dudley could get away with almost anything, and his parent's did not care what he did. Thus, Dudley's room was the perfect place to hide things that they did not want found.

Once the last of the trash was picked up, Harry looked out into the hallway, ensuring that his relatives were nowhere in sight. He quickly carried the four books into his room; he knew he had to hide them so that they would not be seen by anyone.

While Dudley would be able to get away with having them in his room, Harry knew that his having them would be cause for further chores and possibly less food and most likely a beating to boot.

He quickly scanned his room for a hiding place. He lacked piles of clothes, and the stack of broken toys would not really cover the books. That just left beneath his bed; so, he lay on the floor, and pushed them up under the bed. Hiding them deep in the shadows, and nestled amidst the dust bunnies.

After the books were hidden under his bed, Harry returned to Dudley's room and grabbed the filled trash bag to take it down to the rubbish bin. On his way back up, he picked up the vacuum cleaner, trying his best to not start humming. It would not do for Aunt Petunia to think he was _happy _after all.

* * *

Dinner came and he was given two slices of bread, a heavily bruised apple and a slice of ham, and then sent to his room. As he entered, Vernon threw three of the locks with heavy snicking sounds, and for a moment, Harry wondered if he should be happy about being locked in, or upset.

Regardless, he had time to read now. He set the plate on the floor next to his bed, and then reached up under it to grab one of the books. Pulling it out, he glanced at it, and noticed that he had pulled out _Steal This Book_.

He felt a manic grin stretch his face as he was amused by the title. He touched the bold red and blue on the cover, ignoring the odd picture in the middle of it. Then, he flipped it open, going past the title page and table of contents, his hand came to rest on the first page of actual text.

Big bold letters screamed "Free Food" at him. Just beneath this, was the solitary word "Restaurants." With that as the opening, Harry Potter began reading on ways to subvert corporate systems, and how to survive and think and live outside of the expected rules of society. It described a way of life that seemed like it would be anathema to his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. It described a way of life, that seemed the opposite of what the teachers described to his class in Primary School. In fact, it told of a way of life, in active opposition to the accepted rules of society. But Harry felt like the things he was learning from the book, where things he could use, things that he needed to be able to use.

Things that could help him survive.

And for Harry Potter, survival was much more important than being an upstanding member of society. Besides, he did not care that much for the Wizarding World's society and its focus on blood bigotry and hate.

* * *

The fifth day of the summer break, Harry began exercising. For the previous two days he had been debating whether to start or not. The book suggested it. Claimed it was necessary to be in good shape, or otherwise he would be easy to catch and capture. He decided that he needed to both build muscle and stamina.

So, following the suggestions from the book, he decided to start doing the simple exercises that were taught in primary school: jogging, push-ups, sit-ups and maybe chin-ups if he could find a bar the proper height. He thought there was one at the park, but was not sure.

So, he got out of bed an hour earlier than normal, and after dressing in his grungiest clothes, he set out to begin exercising.

He started by jogging around Privet Drive and Wisteria Walk, stopping in the park to do the rest of the exercises on some equipment set up for that purpose. Discovering that, yes there was a chin-up bar after all.

This small change had the impact of making him be active for almost the entire day.

From sunrise to dinner time he was constantly moving and working. If not doing the exercises from the books, then it was the harsh, nearly back-breaking chores assigned him from Vernon and Petunia: weeding, raking, gardening, and organizing the stuff that was stored in the shed. He even had to dig a hole for a pond in the back yard.

Throughout this time, hunger gnawed at him.

In just a few days it had become this bright, painful edge to everything; something that poked at him constantly. It burned while he was doing things, it ached while he rested. Day and night he suffered from it, and the pain grew as the days went on, becoming more and more of a distraction from his thoughts and feelings. Especially, at night when he lay in bed, attempting to read.

* * *

On the eighth night Harry began reading _The Poor Man's James Bond_.

While interesting overall, this book had large sections that he could not really apply to his life, as he lacked ready access to any firearms. He knew that he could probably get his hands on some shotguns or rifles from the local hunting club on the far side of town, but also knew that he would not know what to do with said weapons if he did go get them.

Regardless, he found a lot of information on on explosives and street fighting. He was enthralled as it discussed how to find and how to hide explosive devices. It gave descriptions on the best way to destroy structures and walls or just in general deliver pain and fear and confusion to groups of people.

Finally, there was the section on how to disable people with just his body. He decided then and there to incorporate the suggested exercises into his daily activities. He felt that it would be helpful if he was able to fight hand-to-hand; after all, he remembered how shocked and easily subdued Malfoy was after Hermione popped him one on the nose.

* * *

Three nights later he pulled the _The Anarchist Cookbook _out from beneath his bed. There was still something mesmerizing about that simple cover. It was black, and the title was in a bright red. He smiled, and began reading.

The sheer amount and types of information presented was both daunting and amazing. There was information on creating money and stealing credit cards. Formulas and processes to create different types of bombs or flammable materials, including nitroglycerin and napalm flowed over page upon page. It all existed as a stream of useful information on how to sabotage and destroy.

Then there were the sections on hacking and using the phone system without paying and even parts on effective ways to manipulate people into giving him things.

It was in the section on hacking, that he found the essay. It was a sheet of paper that had been folded twice and stuck into the book. Harry opened it, and noticed that it looked like it had been typed on an old typewriter; it almost looked like some of the books that appeared in the Magical world as opposed to the magazines and books from the muggle one. That said, he knew just from the subject matter that it came from the muggle world. One edge of the paper, was jagged, as if It had been ripped out of some magazine. The title was simply "The Hacker's Manifesto" and had apparently been authored by someone with the name of "The Mentor."

It was a somewhat rambling essay, but there was something in it that called out to him. Something about it which inspired him, and made him _think _for the first time in years. It made him actually stop and consider things the way he used to before getting his Hogwarts letter.

Calmly, he folded the paper back up, and replaced it in the book. Closing the book, he stared at the red writing for a long moment.

Emotion burned in his chest; anger at his teachers and others at the school. He did not understand why, but he knew that _something _was going on where he was concerned. Some thing. Some how.

He did not have the words to explain his feeling or thoughts or even the questions that roamed through his mind. Those things were still submerged in the back of his mind. Unsaid, and unasked. Almost, instinctively, he knew that the questions existed. He could feel them there, itching at the edge of his awareness. Despite the fact that he knew they were there, he did not know the questions to be asked, much less their answers.

Giving it up for a bad job, Harry stashed the book back under the bed, and then stretched out and stared up at the ceiling. Thoughts concerning his teachers, Ron and Hermione, as well as all of the adventures they had participated in rushed through his mind. A wash of pain and danger and confusion.

Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, and forced himself to fall asleep, even as he processed and thought about the information that he had read over the past few days.

* * *

On day sixteen, he decided that he had to put into practice some of the suggestions from _Steal This Book_. He took a slightly longer run that morning, and made two small stops on his way to the park.

The first was behind the small grocers roughly a half mile north of said park. There was a large green rubbish bin which sat next to a heavy looking door. Harry frowned for a moment, and then jumped in. The stench of rotting fruits and vegetables was almost overpowering. Still, he dug through the trash, and finally found a handful of tin cans. They were dented, and the labels had been removed, but they were still sealed and did not show the tell-tale bulging of being bad. He placed them into the pack that he carried, and climbed out of the bin.

A quick glance around, and he started jogging once again.

His second stop was in a location similar to his first, but instead of being a grocer's it was a local thrift store. There were two bins behind this building. One stood a few feet away from the large rolling door, and was obviously the trash bin. The second was across the alley from the building, and had the words painted on the side that spelled out "Donations."

Within, these two bins, he found a number of pairs of jeans and a few shirts that were his size, as well as a few pairs of training trousers and shorts that he could continue exercising in. These also went into his bag, and once again, he was jogging away.

Five minutes later, he was in the park, and starting the muscle building aspects of his exercises.

Once he was done, he went over to a table, and dug through his bag pulling out the tins of food. He sat there, and looked at them for a few minutes, his thoughts dark as he considered what he had done that morning. Harry knew that strictly speaking, what he had done could be considered stealing; he knew he should feel shame for digging through the trash for food to eat.

Yet despite what he knew he should feel, he felt no guilt, no qualms of his conscious, no stirrings of shame or self-disgust.

Rather, he felt the sharp pain of hunger; a gnawing, roiling ache that was settled deep in his bones, and rested heavy across stomach..

Opening the first of the tins, he began eating the corn that was found within it.

That night, he fell asleep with, not necessary a full stomach, but without the gnawing ache of hunger. It was the first time that that had happened since school had let out for the summer.

* * *

On the twenty-second night of his summer holidays, Harry finally finished _Ender's Game_. Closing the book, he looked at the cover for a moment, and then sighed. It had only been a few minutes since he had sent Hedwig off to Hermione, so he expected that he would not get a letter from her for two or three days. Despite not hearing from Ron all summer, Hermione's last letter to him told him that the Weasley's expected to invite them both to the Quidditch World Cup in a few weeks.

Harry groaned slightly, as he balled his fists into his eyes. That was just another set of mysteries that plagued him and his life.

He could not understand how a family as poor as Ron always claimed they were, were able to afford to take them all, plus Hermione and himself to the World Cup. He also did not understand why only Ron's friends were invited to things like this. Lee was a muggle-born as well, and Harry was fairly certain that the twins had never been allowed to invite him over to the Burrow.

Growling slightly, Harry pushed thoughts of the Weasley's out of his mind as stared at the image on the cover of _Ender's Game_. It was a simple image of a spaceship flying towards the distance, an image that evoked feelings of escape and facing the unknown at the same time.

A sigh escaped him as he forcefully turned his thoughts back onto the story he had just read. He thought about the story, and what Ender had done and what he had been through, and focused those thoughts through a lens of "The Hacker's Manifesto"and the three other books Harry had recently read. Dark thoughts filled his mind, thoughts about corrupt and controlling authority figures and teachers, and weapons against a nearly unconquerable enemy.

As those things raced through his mind, Harry compared Ender's adventures and schooling with his own.

He sat up in the bed, his eyes widening, and then narrowing into a cross frown as realization sunk in. The book was an enjoyable read. It was a fun book. Yet, despite that, the book scared him. It made him worry about his life, and his future. The story resonated with Harry. He recognized it. He understood it. He firmly believed that he _lived _it.

He easily saw himself _AS _Ender.

The parallels were there, harsh and obvious as he thought about them. The small adventures that were almost too hard, yet still forced him further on. The way that adults in his life fell into one of three categories: they treated him with disdain and hatred, they were accepting, but cold and aloof and never did anything to help him when approached, or they were caring but absent. The teachers themselves always fell into one of the first two categories. Snape always actively participated in the abuse and derision and scorn directed towards him. Anytime the greasy professor was presented with the opportunity to emotionally beat upon Harry, he took it. Other professors, such as his own Head of House, Professor McGonagall, would simply refuse to help him when he requested said help. She was often absent in her role as confidant and mentor and pseudo parent for Gryffindor House, but it was even worse where he was concerned. She did not believe him about the Philosopher's Stone, and she did nothing to help curb the students who were spreading rumors about him being the Heir of Slytherin in his second year.

Harry was often the focus of anger, scorn and bullying from a number of the students, while most of the rest thought little to nothing of him. Even Ron often reacted with jealousy and anger directed towards him or Hermione.

And he was supposed to be some type of hero or celebrity?

As he thought on this, and considered how often he was antagonized, how often he would respond, and ultimately, who was punished in the situations, he realized that he was constantly being pushed in this. He would be punished by teachers for responding to Malfoy or what not, and that would be the case, until the moment that other people's lives were on the line. The moment, he helped save someone else—and usually that was the school as a whole or a pure-blood-then he would get a pat on the head and a few worthless, useless house points; all so that the Great Hall could have Gryffindor colors for a few hours during a single meal.

Emotion flared in his chest; a storm surge of anger and distrust.

It was all a part and parcel of the whole. All factors in how he was being raised, and trained. He was to have no sense of self-preservation, and be willing to give up his life for other witches and wizards.

Why, he asked himself.

Why was this the case? Why was he being made the one responsible for laying his life down on the line where other magical beings were not? Did not everyone have the responsibility for ensuring that they themselves were protected? He had no family, no wife, just a gathering of friends, and while he loved them dearly, he could not see any particular reason that he would be responsible for ensuring their survival.

He could feel his eyes burn slightly as tears fought to both fall and not fall at the same time. He scrubbed at his right eye in slight frustration.

After a few moments, his emotions centered themselves once again, and he focused his thoughts on the one person he felt himself closest to: Hermione.

Closing his eyes, he released a nearly silent sigh; realization washed over him. She was his Valentine and his Petra all rolled into one. Someone that showed him love and helped teach him; someone who accepted him as he was and did all she could to help him. She was a helper, and a confidant; someone who supported him.

He knew that she might not necessarily be a part of the system, but she was a person whose entire personality, how she thought, how she cared and how she reacted to him in pain, made her easily used and abused by the teachers and other adults in their little game of creating a weapon. He assumed she was not a part of that particular game, because she did not fit the mold with those who he knew were. She was muggle-born and muggle-raised, not someone who was raised in the magical world, unlike the rest of the players in this particular game that Harry was finding himself in. The teachers, Malfoy, the Weasleys and the rest of the worst of the students were all magical-raised. The only pieces that he recognized on the board of the let's make Harry a weapon game that were exceptions to that was Hermione and himself.

And Voldemort.

Dark thoughts flickered through his mind, as those connections were made, and just as quickly, he pushed them away. That was a path of thought he did not want to deal with tonight. Instead, he focused his thoughts back on Hermione and her place in his life.

His decision was quickly made, she, he trusted.

In that instant, he knew that he would not tolerate anyone making fun or arguing with her. Not Malfoy. Not Ron.

Sighing, he thumbed through the book, looking for a certain conversation between Ender and Petra. Then he found it. He re-read the words, absorbing them, internalizing them: _The adults are the enemies, not the other armies. They do not tell us the truth._

This was how he now felt about Dumbledore and McGonagall, and to a lesser extent all of the other professors. He had always known that Snape was an enemy.

Even Hagrid was part and parcel of the systemic abuse.

Hagrid himself had admitted that rainy night when he rescued Harry that he was not the person to inform someone muggle-raised of the basics of the Wizarding World. Hagrid had even forgotten to tell him how to get onto the platform. What else did Harry not learn before the start of the year? Was there some type of information package that Hermione received that he did not? He did not know. Harry did not know about what rights he had in the Wizarding World, nor what his responsibilities were, or were going to be after he graduated school.

And it all came back to Dumbledore.

_The adults are the enemies, not the other armies. They do not tell us the truth._

Harry knew this to be true; he felt it in his very bones. He knew because he could see the resemblance between Dumbledore and Graff and Rackham. Dumbledore was his own personal Graff, and just like Graff, Dumbledore was raising and training a weapon. He felt that to the teachers, there was not a person called Harry; rather there was nothing but a thing. An undefined object that was being raised and reared to be a weapon; a weapon that could, and would, be aimed at Voldemort and told to attack and then to die, and worse, he would then just happily go and do that. Harry knew he would, because even now he saw it as a perfectly acceptable way in which he could escape the pain and misery of his life.

He could see it now; it would be his ultimate and final act of rebellion.

The way he would get back at the teachers for pressuring him into task after impossible-to-overcome task. He would give up, and either die or destroy Voldemort. Or both.

Harry wondered if he followed Dumbledore's plans for his life and became the weapon that the old man wanted him to be and by some miracle actually survived being pointed and fired, would Dumbledore place his hand on Harry's shoulder, and tell him, "I aimed you. I'm responsible. If there was something wrong, I did it."

Harry somehow doubted that Dumbledore, unlike Rackham, would have even that cold comfort to provide Harry at the end of everything.

There was a part of Harry that believed that Dumbledore would not offer it, even if he was able. There was that small part of him, that believed, that _knew_, that Dumbledore would never have that much concern over his weapon. He knew that Dumbledore had no worlds for Harry to flee too. There would be no speaking for the dead. There would be the loss of his self, if not in death, then into whatever shape and mold the Headmaster had twisted Harry into by the time his schooling was done.

Harry could almost feel the dark times approaching. It was a twist of tension in his stomach and head, a cold knowledge which sat at the pit of his stomach; the unspoken, unheard, and unacknowledged truth that the trials and troubles that he had faced so far were just the tip of the proverbial iceberg; they were merely the leading edge of the storm that was to come.

And just like that, he knew.

He knew that he had to grow up.

He knew that he had to take control of his life. He knew that he could not blindly be Dumbledore's weapon. He knew that he could not rely or count on any adult at school, that he would be forced to protect the students and his friends-and to ensure that the bullying and bigotry and hate were met with an appropriate response.

And that response did not include the blind forgiveness which the Headmaster seemed to give out so freely to all but the victims of said bullying, bigotry and hate.

Harry scrubbed at his face before getting out of the bed. He crossed the room and placed his hands against the door on either side of the mirror that hung there, leaning into the door slightly as he looked at his own reflection.

He stared into his own eyes, searching for any sense of self, and who he was versus who he wanted to be, who he expected himself to be. He searched his eyes for any hint of the Harry Potter that had existed prior to his eleventh birthday.

Who was he?

Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived?

He lacked answers. He did not know.

So instead of answering, he searched. And he watched.

And as he watched, he saw how the dim, yellow light from the street lamps outside made his eyes glitter with a cold fire. As he watched he considered and thought and he let the anger settle deeper into his bones. An anger that was a harsh coldness that twisted at his gut, and made him question everything in his life.

Harry finally understood what Ender had meant while thinking about the difference between a cold anger and a hot anger. He watched his eyes, as that cold anger flared and flashed within them; something that made them seem hard, like glittering, chips of green colored ice.

When he spoke, his voice was harsh with disuse and a touch of dehydration. The words seemed to sneak out from inside him, and take a life of their own in the still of the night. They were a whispered promise of disquiet, distrust and subversion, which settled firmly into his mind as he stared at his own eyes in the mirror. They were an incantation of change.

Those words, all but stolen from the character Petra, sparked a distrust of adults and others; they were a promise to himself to look beyond the words given to him and to find the why.

To not trust blindly.

To not be the simple weapon, ready to save the world at the cost of his own soul.

He spoke words which he had decided to take on as his creed and doctrine; they were the subtle rule by which he would life his life, and judge not just the teachers, but the other students, and everyone he came into contact with.

Into that quiet, stiflingly hot night, Harry Potter spoke words which would ultimately change the Wizarding World forever.

"The adults are the enemies, not the other houses. They do not tell us the truth."


	4. The Fugitive

Harry exhaled as he stared at the door in front of him. Steeling himself, he raised his hand and knocked three times quickly.

"Come on," came Professor McGonagall's voice, her customary Scottish twang quite heavy.

He opened the door, and stepped into the room to discover just what had upset his Head of House so very, very much. It was a rather large, toad dressed in a pink cardigan. She was situated on a stool off to the right, and slightly behind the Professor with small pink clipboard in her hand.

Umbridge looked up at him, and gave him a supposedly superior glare. Harry ignored her, and settled into the hard-backed chair in front of McGonagall's desk.

"Professor."

She gave him a thin lipped smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. Do you know why you're here today?"

He gave a quick shake of his head. "Nope not really."

"We're to have a discussion about your schooling post O.W.L.s, and potential career choices that are available for you."

"So, what you're saying is that our electives and O.W.L.s play a part in the jobs that we can get because they factor which N.E.W.T.S we can take?"

"That's correct."

"So, say someone takes Ancient Runes, does that mean that they have more jobs than someone that takes Muggle Studies?"

McGonagall nodded her head. "That's correct. Ancient Runes is a requirement for enchanters, curse-breakers and ward-masters."

Harry frowned for a moment. "Then why on earth is this the first I've heard about such a thing? I mean, that would have been important information back at the end of my second year when we were picking out our electives."

The professor frowned.

"Why would you not know these things?"

"How would I know these things? I was raised by my muggle-relatives."

"But your friends..."

"And I have two best friends. A muggle-born girl, and a magic-raised boy. The magic raised boy tells me that there's no real reason that the harder classes are needed. It's just reasonable to assume that the magic-raised boy knows what he's talking about."

Harry leaned back against the chair, and shifted slightly at how uncomfortable it was.

He stole a glance at the pink-toad for a moment, before focusing back on his Head of House, with a frown on his face. "On an unrelated note, why exactly is Umbridge here?"

"Please address me with the title, Professor," came the faux-girly voice.

"Professor Umbridge is correct, Mr. Potter, please address her with the proper respect."

He glance towards her for a moment, before focusing on McGonagall again. "My question stands."

Umbridge spoke up. "I'm reviewing Professor McGonagall in my status as Hogwart's Inquisitor."

He waved a hand airily. "Ah, I understand. Now, we know that I'll not be a curse-breaker or a ward-master or an enchanter, because I'm three years to late to begin the studies. What's left?"

She glanced down. "Your Defense professor last year, indicated that you would make a good Auror. That requires an EE on the Care, DADA, Potions and either Charms or Transfiguration N.E.W.T.s."

"Hem-hem."

Harry ignored her. "I'm not certain if I should be insulted or not. The man was a Death Eater in disguise. I'm not certain I'd want anyone he advocates as an auror to be one. The implication is that they're either too incompetent to be allowed to investigate crimes or on the take."

He scratched at his chin for a moment, as he stared at the ceiling. Ignoring the two professors.

"Of course, when I was accused of breaking the law last summer, no aurors came to investigate. I set off a highly defensive spell in a muggle neighborhood, and all I get is owls about being expelled. No aurors, no investigators. Makes me wonder about who 'recommended' the current crop of aurors."

A shift of his head, and he was looking out the window. A moment later, he shrugged his shoulders and was about to open his mouth to say something else, when Umbridge broke in. "Voldemort has not returned! Stop spreading your lies!"

Harry glared at her. "I didn't say a thing about the Dark Twit. I spoke of the person that taught DADA here last year. It was Barty Crouch, Jr, who was convicted for being a Death Eater, spent the year under polyjuice potion teaching all of us impressionable youth all about the Unforgivables, and then Minister had him summarily executed for escaping Askaban."

He then turned his attention back to his Head of House.

"Now, as I was saying, I think I want to be a fugitive after graduation."

"A... a fugitive?"

Harry nodded quickly. "Yup. I saw it on the telly a few years ago. This guy was accused of a crime, and was running around trying to clear his name."

"A fugitive."

Harry's smile broadened. "I think I'm off to a fairly good start. I should be able to go on the run after my O.W.L.s, when the ministry won't be able to snap my wand if I breath wrongly."

"A...fugitive..."

He turned his attention to Umbridge. "And I have to be thankful for all the help that the Ministry has given me in regards to my career goals."

He held up his hand, a finger lifted. "They've been bad-mouthing me in the press for months. Driving down my public approval ratings, and giving me that great gritty back-story. At least one above being raised in a cupboard."

He ticked off a second-finger. "They've already tried to railroad me through a trial."

A third finger. "Then they sent you here, to make sure that none of us pass our Defense O.W.L.s. I mean, an theory-only course? In our Owl year?"

He glanced away from his fingers, and gave another fatalistic shrug of the shoulders. "Well, you all get the idea."

McGonagall heaved a great sigh. "Mr. Potter, you cannot be a fugitive when you grow up."

He frowned. "But, the teachers in primary always told us that we could be anything we wanted to be when we grow up."

He watched as she closed her eyes. Her lips moved slightly. Roughly ten seconds later she opened her eyes again. "Be that as it may, one should not aspire to being a fugitive when you grow up."

He smirked at her. "So, no to the fugitive?"

"No to the fugitive," she replied, as she rubbed at one temple.

"Then a man of leisure."

Again both of the adults were staring at him.

"A man... of...leisure?"

He nodded his head quickly. "You know, a rich, globe-trotting, playboy. I mean, I recently owled the Goblins to get a bank statement, and to ask why I've not been receiving them. Apparently, Dumbledore had them all forwarded on to him. Anyways, I got my statements, and found out exactly how much money my parents left me. So, rich, globe-trotting, playboy."

For a moment, Harry thought McGonagall was going to cry. "Play... ri... but why, Mr. Potter?"

"It's not that hard a choice, Professor," he continued on cheerfully, holding up his left hand. "On the one hand, I have Magical Britain. I've almost been killed six or seven times since I rejoined the magical world, and I'm getting kind of tired of constantly dodging attempts on my life. Also, our erstwhile government, which has no compunctions regarding summary executions, is currently bad-mouthing me, and has tried at least once to convict me without any actual criminal investigations."

He held up his right hand. "On the other hand, there's Tulum, Mexico. A thriving magical community, a number of fun, ancient Mayan ruins to explore, warm weather and best of all, topless beaches that are reportedly quite popular with veela of loose morals."

He grinned brightly at the dumbstruck expressions on both their faces. "Only reason, I've not left yet, is that I don't get full access to my accounts until after O.W.L.s or I'm 17."

"But..."

To his amusement, McGonagall glanced at Umbridge for moral support.

"My Godfather thinks its a great idea. He's pledging his fortune to help. He says I'd get it when he kicks it regardless, but this way we both can have a bit of fun with it."

McGonagall's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, and then closed once more. She again, turned and looked at Umbridge.

"Will that be all?"

Silently, his head of house nodded her head.

He stood up and dusted off the front of his pants, and gave the two professors another grin. "Great. Oh, by the way, I'll probably be taking Hermione with me when I run off to be a man of leisure. She seemed excited about the topless beaches..."

Whistling, he turned and walked out the door.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks goes towards Rorshach's Blot's "Things I'd Like to See in a Fic" #300 &amp; 365...**


	5. Serious Umbrage

Harry glared at his godfather. His fingers thrummed in an staccato rhythm on the kitchen table. A cup of tea sat beside his hand growing cold.

Sirius glared back at him, a frown etching his features; his arms were crossed and he was leaning back in his chair.

"I don't see why you're complaining about this."

Sirius sighed. "It's the principal of the thing."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's a win-win. Think about it. We know defense professors try their best to kill me, so you're saving my life. We know that Dumbledore won't notice someone being replaced by some other person using polyjuice, so it's a great prank on him. And, you get to spend the whole year close by, and we can have some real conversations without being hassled and chased away from each other by Mrs. Weasley."

Sirius sighed and rubbed at his face. "I know all that."

"Then why don't you want to do this?"

"Because it's Umbridge! I'm not sure that I can take a whole year of looking like her. That's a lot to ask."

"Even if it's to save my life?"

Sirius picked up the copy of the Daily Prophet that had started this particular conversation, and waved it in front of Harry's face. "Umbridge. Look."

Harry gave him his best puppy dog face, as he considered the fact that he had least learned something from someone last year. Even if that was how to give an appropriate puppy-dog face, from an 8 year old French girl.

Sirius sighed again. "Fine, but you owe me."

Harry laughed. "It'll be great. You'll see."

Harry began getting the multi-compartment trunk ready while Sirius prepared for his errand to acquire a toad.

A few minutes later, Sirius hugged him, and gave him another sharp look. "No one must ever know that I looked like Umbridge."

Harry barked a laugh. "Just you, me and Hermione."

Sirius shook his head and sighed, and then walked out of Grimmauld Place.

Harry rubbed his hands together, and went to find Hermione. She should appreciate this. Someone who actually got a decent NEWT grade in DADA was going to be their teacher, and it was someone that they both actually liked, and that liked him. Which meant less chance of their being death-defying things going on at the end of the year.

* * *

Two days later, found Harry sitting at the Welcome Feast next to Hermione. She was glaring at him slightly, still upset with the whole Sirius polyjuiced as their defense professor thing. Harry was not sure if the glare was because she was not in on the planning of it, or if Sirius just left and they had not planned a way to let them know if he was successful or not.

No matter, He'd find out soon enough.

Dumbledore stood and was making the usual remarks about the beginning of term. He had just introduced the new defense professor, and was beginning his discussion on banned items, when Umbridge stood up.

"Hem-hem" she coughed in what to Harry sounded like a distinct falsetto. Harry blinked, and gave his head a sharp shake.

"Hermione?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Does polyjuice affect a person's voice?"

Hermione sighed, and shook her head slightly, her focus intently on Umbridge.

Umbridge had spoken over them, and the other whispering students; acting like she had not a care in the world if anyone paid attention to her or not. All the while, her voice still echoed in that high-pitched falsetto. "Thank you, headmaster, for those kind words of welcome. The Ministry of Magic has always considered the s... education of young witches with wizards to be of a vital importance. Although each headmaster has brought something new to this... historic school, progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged. Let us preserve what must be preserved..., perfect what pr... can be perfected and prune practices that ought to be... prohibited."

Harry blinked. Not quite certain what to make of that.

Hermione sighed, leaned in towards him, and whispered. "If that's Snuffles, then he's not talking about our Hogwarts education. If that's Umbridge, then that means the ministry's interfering with Hogwarts. Sadly, we don't know which."

"But Umbridge interrupted Dumbledore's speech. That's something Siri... Snuffles would do."

Hermione nodded. "Yes it is. But from what I understand, it's also within the realm of expected behavior for Umbridge. Again, we don't know if that's him or not."

Before Harry could respond to that the food had appeared before them, and the feast had begun.

* * *

The first defense lesson of the year was about to start. Even though they had been in the school for a few days, they had not been able to corner Umbridge or find an excuse to speak with her. Thus, they still did not know if it was really Umbridge or if it was Sirius under polyjuice.

Other students that had already been to her class were not really talking much about her class.

Hermione walked confidently to her usual position in the classroom, and Harry followed sedately behind her. Settling into the seat right next to her. Once Harry was situated in the desk next to Hermione, he took a quick glance around the room. Gone where all the various pictures and diagrams that had made up the Defense classroom in years past. Gone was the dragon skeleton that had hung from the roof. In their place was pictures of kittens.

Sadly, that did not help him determine if it was Sirius or Umbridge either. While they were all pink plates, which was pure Umbridge, he knew that Sirius was an ailurophobic and considered kittens the darkest of the Dark Creatures.

Finally, Harry's gaze fell on their teacher. She was seated at the teacher's desk, once again wearing the same fluffy pink cardigan she had wore at the Welcoming Feast, and the same black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.

He shivered, before whispering to Hermione. "If that is Snuffles, I think I need to apologize."

She nodded as the clock tower chimed the hour. The door to the class slammed shut with a forcible sound of finality, and Umbridge set down the papers she had been reviewing, before looking out at the class.

"Well," she began, once again speaking in that horrid falsetto. "Good morning, class."

There was a smattering of responses. The best of them were only half-hearted.

The woman tsked. "That just won't do. The proper response is 'Good morning, Professor.' So, let's try that again. Good morning, class."

The class shared a quick look, before responding, "Good morning, Professor."

The toad-like woman, or Sirius in disguise, Harry could still go either way, stood up, and began pacing in front of the classroom.

"This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the ministry is sorely disappointed at how disjointed your education has been up to this point in this class. What the Headmaster was thinking with some of his hires we just do not know. So, this class will be a chance to return to the basics."

The students shared a quick glance, as Umbridge pointed a wand at the board. Writing appeared, detailing the class's aims.

"As you can see, we shall cover various dark creatures. We shall cover proper responses to threats, and finally, we shall cover the theory of spell casting."

The class stared at one another.

Hermione raised her hand, but Umbridge ignored her. "Now, everyone can pull out their Ministry-approved Defense texts, and read the first chapter."

Hermine kept her hand up, as Umbridge prowled around the room. After a few minutes, Umbridge finally seemed to notice Hermione and nodded her head.

"What is it dear?"

"I have a question about the course aims, ma'am."

"Well, they're clearly printed on the board, in rather simple words. I would expect even you to would be able to understand them."

Harry could hear Hermione's teeth grinding at the supposed insult to her intelligence. For a moment, he considered whether or not that should count towards her being Sirius or not. Harry could quite easily see his godfather saying something that snarky to Hermione just to rile her up. He had done similar things at Grimmauld Place. But, from what he had read about Umbridge in the prophet before the start of the year, her insulting a muggleborn as being less than someone from the families was also well in character.

He forcibly suppressed a sigh at his indecision as Hermione responded. "Be that as it may, I don't see anything about practicing spells?"

The professor sniffed. "I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell."

Parvati broke into the conversation at this point. "And our exams? I've never gotten a spell right on the first try."

The professor smiled in condescension at the girl. "Well, with a proper understanding of the theory, students should not have any troubles performing well on their examinations."

She glanced around, and then focused on Harry. "Despite what some of you may have... heard, there is nothing out that that represents a danger to you. The ministry is here to keep you safe."

The conversation quickly devolved at that point. With the students giving various reasons on why they should be practicing; often repeating themselves about OWLs and tests. All the while Umbridge insisted that the Ministry would solve all the problems in the world. Though Harry thought at one point she mentioned that not having them practice spells would be less work for her.

As class neared its end, Harry had a brilliant idea, and raised his hand.

Umbridge nodded towards him. "Yes, Mr. Potter."

Smiling, innocently, Harry said, "Well, what about Sirius Black? He's still out there, and we know he can make it in and out of Hogwarts despite the efforts of teachers and the ministry. How can we defend ourselves against him if we can't practice spells?"

One of Umbridge's eye twitched, and Hermione elbowed him in the stomach. Harry's smile just grew bigger. If this was Sirius, maybe he'd be given detention or something.

A quick glance at the girl beside him, showed that she was still grinding her teeth.

It was at this point that he realized that even if it wasn't Sirius, Umbridge might just give him detention for doing something silly like proving her wrong.

Umbridge wrote something down on a piece of parchment, and then dropped it on his desk. "Off to McGonnagall with you. I'll expect you back after dinner for your detention."

Harry sighed as he looked at the hand-written note. Even that wasn't proof, as one of the few stories that Sirius had gotten to tell Harry was how he had learned to be an expert hand-writing forger for a few of their pranks against the Slytherins.


	6. Future Imperfect

**Future Imperfect**

* * *

Harry ducked a yellow curse.

A yellow curse that flew past him, and straight into the cabinet containing the hundreds of time turners. There was an explosion of light, sound and sand behind him, coating him in the stuff. As he spat out a mouthful, there was an odd tug. A twisty feeling that gripped his stomach and wrenched it.

Reality flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then darkness.

He blinked awake into a searing brightness. An overwhelming ambiance of light and smoke and odd smells, cluttered with the sounds of a city mixed with noises he could not place. It was a cacophony that assaulted his senses and wrung them out in highly unpleasant ways.

Another blink, and his surroundings were a bit clearer. He was in an alley. Walls that stretched upwards as far as he could see confirmed that, as well as the trash, and the distinct dual smells of urine and alcohol.

He gave a shake of his head, and silvery sand shimmered around him before fading away.

As he looked around again, a shadow fell upon him. He glanced up and found himself looking at something. It was too tall and too green to be a goblin, was breathing air so could not be a mereman. In short he had no clue what it was, though it was dressed in something that Harry could conceivable consider to be a uniform of some sort. The clothes were black, with red piping down the sides and across the seams; a silver icon of some sort was displayed broadly on his chest, and a heavy, belt with odd things hung roughly where a waist would have been on a human.

The thing's voice was harsh, metallic, but somehow squeakier than Flitwick's. "qatlh ba' SoH yav? chech"

Harry shook his head. "I have no idea what you just said."

He had a handful of seconds to ensure that his wand was in his hand, before the thing's massive paw grabbed him and wrenched him into a standing position. It then pushed him towards a silver cube that was sitting in the mouth of the alley.

Harry paused, and there was another rough push against his back. He stumbled forward, and then shot a glare at the thing behind him.

He got the squeaky voice in response. "tugh 'ej"

He sighed and approached the silvery cube. There was blue lights situated on the roof that were flashing in a rhythmic pattern, and lines that indicated either where it would open or some other type of seam.

Another push in the back, and he stumbled to a stop at the cube. He looked around, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"yong"

"I still have no idea what you're saying."

The thing snarled slighlty, leaned past him and pressed a random place on the cube. There was a hiss, and a portion of the cube swung open.

After a second, Harry was pushed into it, and frowned as he felt himself sitting in what was for all purposes a padded cell that smelled of urine, vomit and something else, an acrid stench that burned at his nostrils.

The cube shimmied for a moment, and there was a feeling of vertigo in his stomach.

Roughly a half hour later, the wall of his cell opened up, and the thing was standing there again. This time, roughly pointing to a place beside him.

"Haw'"

Sighing once more, Harry stumbled outwards, and found himself being herded into a large building. Hundreds of signs were plastered over one another, each in a different language. He though he saw one in English that said something about travel, but he could not be certain.

He was shoved into a queue that held roughly six other people in front of him.

These at least appeared human, though one of them was dressed as a Roman Legionnaire, another was dressed as a Musketeer, one in a outfit much like the thing that brought him here, another in some type of animal skin toga, while the other two were in robes. Not, wizarding robes, but rather robes like the Muslims on the television wore.

Slowly, the people in front of him were processed by whatever was working here, and he was at the front of the queue. There was just a door in front of him. A white door, with no other decorations or even a handle. The only reason he knew it was a door, was because the Roman Legionnaire that had been standing in front of him, had gone through it when it opened.

A quick glance behind him, showed that there was someone that looked like they lived in a western, and then another person that was dressed the same way that the students from Durmstrang had dressed.

After what seemed like forever, the door in front of him opened. Hesitantly, he stepped into the slightly darker room beyond.

As soon as he had cleared it, the door closed behind him with a whispering hiss. He glanced behind him, and sighed and stepped all the way into the room and looked around. It looked much like the prinicipal's office had at his primary school. A large desk with some odd things on it, with a chair on the other side for the person in trouble.

Harry settled into the chair, and stared at the desk, not certain what was going on.

Then, the door behind him opened again, and someone walked in, holding what appeared to be a clipboard and staring intently at it.

At that moment, Harry jumped because of two things that happened; the first was pain had flared in his forehead and the second was that the man had spoken in a soft, low hissing voice, that droned with the boredom of having said the phrase so many times before. It was the same tone of voice of the person that his Aunt Petunia had spoken with at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency when she had to renew her driving license.

"My name is Tom Riddle, and I'm your caseworker here at the Department of Unexpected Anachronisms, Dimensional Visitation Licenses, and Cross-Time Vehicles."

Harry blinked, and looked hard at the man standing there. A man that still had pale skin, red eyes, no hair, and no nose to speak of, though he was dressed in what appeared to be black dockers, and a short-sleeved white Oxford shirt with a black tie.

Harry blinked again, and struggled to match the man that he was staring at, with the Dark Lord that had risen from the cauldron in that cemetery.

He opened his mouth to curse, to do anything, but what came out was, "Tom?"

Finally, Tom looked up from the clipboard, and then blinked twice. He leaned forward slightly, and stared hard at him. "You look familiar."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Tom looked at him again, and then reached out, and poked him once in the middle of his forehead.

"Have you been in before and they just made a mistake by giving you a new file?"

Harry shook his head. "Tom... uh.. aren't you supposed to be ruling the world or trying to kill me? Or something Dark Lordish? Maybe torturing kittens?"

"Oh, you're a wizard, that might be why you look familiar," Tom replied as he waved the hand that was not holding the clipboard thing.

"And no," he continued. He did not take his attention from the clipboard thing as he walked around to his desk and sat in the chair behind it. "I gave up the Dark Lord business over two thousand years ago. Ruling the Wizarding World got boring after the first century or so. Merlin were those some whiny bitches. Was worse when I tried to branch out into the Muggle world. Broke the Statue of Secrecy, and now I think I'm the only trained wizard left. Anyways, the muggles whipped the Pureblood's arses, random culls over the next decade or so ensured that no one was taught how to manipulate magic. Now, enough about me, what's your name and what year are you from?"

"I... you don't know me?"

Tom sighed. "Listen kid, I've been alive for two-thousand, eight-hundred and thirty-two years. The last two-thousand of which the Muggles have forced me to work in this office 'helping' those beings which have become unstuck in time or from their home dimension for whatever reason or other. So, while you do look familiar, no, I don't know you."

Harry blinked as he considered that. 2800 years. Everyone he knew, but Tom, was dead, and had been for nearly 3000 years.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He tried again.

Then again.

"I'm Harry Potter, and was born in June of 1980."

Tom's head snapped up away from the clipboard thing. "Potter? Really?"

Harry nodded, and tightened his grip on his wand. While this Tom Riddle had not yet even made a threatening move towards him, it was still Tom Riddle.

Then to his surprise, Tom jumped up, and danced in spot behind his desk; a dance that was much the same as the one that Hagrid had performed that time that he and Hermione had rescued Buckbeak from certain death by beheading.

"Finally!" Tom said in a life-filled, and happy voice, quite different from his earlier bored, disinterested tone. "You don't know how long I've been waiting and hoping you'd show up. Finally, the prophecy can be fulfilled and you can put me out of my misery!"

Harry blinked. "Uh..."

Then Tom was around the desk and hugging him.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this. I mean, when you're a teenager, immortality sounds great. Yeah, let's live forever! Hurrah and all that jazz. But let me tell you, after the first thousand years it gets dead boring. Nothings familiar, but people are just as stupid as ever. It was not worth it, and if I could go back in time, I'd slap my sixteen year old self when he decided that it would be a good idea to make seven horcruxes."

Tom returned to his seat and was smiling. Harry shivered slightly. He could not believe that Voldemort had hugged him.

"Uh..."

Tom waved his hand airily. "Don't worry. I have one of your friends petrified back at my apartment. It was that smart mudblood that ... that blond poncy kid.. Dingo? Stark? Anyways, he was constantly whining about. I raised a basilisk just to petrify her after you disappeared, just to shut that blond kid up."

Harry gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear it of all the revelations that Or a had hit him. "You petrified Hermione?"

Tom went back to staring at his clipboard, and then returned his attention to him. "Yes. The Goblins swore you were alive and would re-appear at some point in time. At first, it was so I would have something to lord over you. But after a while, it was actually a nice conversation piece. Most of those that visit my apartment think it's just a work of art much like Michelangelo's David."

Harry blinked again, and gave his head a quick shake.

"You petrified Hermione." Then Harry pointed at him. "And you're being nice to me! You _hugged_ me!"

Tom sighed, and frowned for a moment. "Maybe I idealized you when we were younger, but I could have sworn you were a bit quicker on the uptake than this."

Harry shuddered, and tried his best to curl into a ball. Or at least as much of one as the uncomfortable plastic chair would let him.

Tom leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the desk strumming his fingers while his other was once again holding the clipboard thing. "Have you had the emotional breakdown yet? According to the charts that the muggles provided me when they forced me to take this job, that's the first step to accepting unexpected time displacement."

"Forced you to take this job?"

Tom nodded his head. "Yes. They had me in prison for a century or two, before they realized that I wasn't dying. Then someone had the bright idea to shove me in this department, since for some reason most of the time travelers we get speak English. Oh, the first century I had a tendency to curse everyone that showed up, but after a while, even that gets boring. I'm just amazed that someone in government had a good idea. Worse, about a 1,000 years ago or so, someone came up with an implant that regulates mental processes which meant everyone alive at that time has a tendency to not be violent."

"I..." Harry began, not quite certain how to respond. After all, what does someone say to a Dark Lord who is prohibited from performing violence. So, instead, he closed his mouth.

Tom smiled at him again, and again Harry shuddered, before saying, "could you please not smile at me? I mean to me, you were just trying to kill me."

Tom laughed. "Yes, that might be a bit disturbing. Well, while you're getting on with the expected emotional breakdown, I'll fill you in a bit about the time that you found yourself in."

And with that, Tom explained life in the year 4759.

Spaceships. Flying cars (not powered by magic). Oppressive governments. Little to no personal freedoms (at least in the core-worlds, whatever those are). A galaxy-wide information network that delivers entertainment content, research information and provides social interactions (and tracks your movements). Little robots that they would insert into you to provide health care and languages and translators (not to mention controls your emotions). Hundreds of things that were different in this day and age from the when that Harry had experienced just that morning.

All of that spoken in that same, dull, monotone, voice. A voice filled with the knowledge that it had given the same speech hundreds upon hundreds of times, and the promise of having to do so thousands of times more.

Finally, Tom set down the clipboard thing, and for the first time Harry got to see what Tom had been looking at, and was somewhat surprised when he saw what reminded him of a soap opera.

Tom leaned back in his chair. "As for money, if you can find Gringott's they should still have your gold, and gold is worth a lot in today's society. Not to mention any furniture or other heirlooms that may have survived."

Harry rubbed at his face. "Okay. So you suggest that I travel to a 'rim-world' whatever that is, as the lack of personal liberties here on Earth would drive someone from our time insane, and that I should first hunt down Gringott's to get my gold and whatever else they may have of mine there. Oh, and we need to de-petrify Hermione"

"Are you sure? I mean, I've had a number of museums offer quite a bit of money for her as a statue. I never sold her after I gave up the Dark Lord business because I thought I might need it as a bargaining chip with you."

Harry quickly nodded his head. "Yes, I'm sure."

"That's fine," Tom replied with a sigh; a resigned look etched onto his features. Suddenly, his face broke out into a smile again. "Oh! Don't forget that you're going to finally put me out of my misery!"

"What?"

"I went over this earlier, remember. I'm tired of living, and according to prophecy only you can kill me. You've not gotten the control injection so you should be able to help me with my little problem of being alive; in fact, I'll help you. I'll mark that you've already received that particular control program so that you'll be able to do what you want no matter what."

"You can do that? Won't you get in trouble?" Harry asked, even as he wondered why he should worry about Tom getting in trouble.

Tom nodded. "Yes. All caseworkers have the program on their desks since a significant number of time travelers have a tendency to be violent. Besides, if you do your part, I'll be dead."

Harry rubbed his chin. "I don't know. I mean, I was never very comfortable with that whole thought of killing someone."

"Oh, please. You killed my host when you were eleven."

"Maybe," Harry replied with a frown. "You want me to find some way to displace myself in time again."

A look of terror etched itself onto Tom's face. "Please don't do that. I'll give you anything."

And with those words, Harry smiled. "Well... to start with..."


	7. E is for Extinction

**AN: **Just a start to a story that came to me when I was re-watching Days of Future Past the other day. Not sure where I would go with this, but it could easily play out similar to any X-Men v. Sentinel story arc. I would think you'd have Harry &amp; his friends as the X-Men, and Voldemort working basically as a Magneto foil, without any of Magneto's occasionaly nobility. Which is the 'lesser' evil here? The robots out to destroy a way or life, or the mad-man out to rule that way of life?

* * *

**19 June, 1978, Washington D.C., United States **

Black smoke twisted out of the night sky; sickly green highlights flickered within it, staccato flashes of some arcane energy. It slammed into the ground and pooled for a moment. Seconds passed and then the cloud swirled away to reveal a tall figure. It was masculine or at least distinctly non-female. Black robes wrapped around his body and a skull like mask covered his face. In the figure's right hand was a thin stick. The man twirled it expertly and then jabbed it forward.

Red light exploded from its tip. A bright energy which flew through the air to slam against the door. The ball of light gathered at the door for a moment, almost merging slightly with the metal of the door itself. Then that moment passed and the door exploded inward in a cataclysm of light and fire and twisted shards of steel.

The man stepped entered the building, confident and unafraid. Strong steps echoed loudly in the stairwell as he walked down.

On the third landing down another ball of light caused another door to explode inwards.

Once more the man moved confidently through the remains of the door. Instead of being empty there is a lone security guard. His gun was aimed at the man in the robe.

"On the floor! Now!"

"You dare speak to me?" The man said in a snarled hiss. "_Avada Kadavra_!"

As those last two words were spoken, the man jabbed his stick forward. Yet instead of a ball of red light, this time it was an oblong shard of vibrant, living, emerald green.

A joyful green.

A green that seemed to preach life and living and all good things.

The green blob splashed against the guard. There was a flicker of that emerald light as it gave the man a momentary aura. For that brief half-second, the guard shone with that happy, verdant light.

And with that, the guard crumpled to the ground. There was no blood, no surprised outcry. There was just death. A simple cessation of everything that guard was or could ever be.

As the robed man stepped over the lifeless guard, he froze. Time seemed to stand still, the robed man's booted foot hanging motionless over the guard he had just slain.

And with that the lights in the room turned up. It was a medium-sized board room, and packed with men in uniforms and suits. These were men of power. Senators. Generals. Heads of organizations that were spoken of in whispered acronyms. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and their British counterparts MI5 and MI6.

A final man stepped forward from a lectern near one wall. He was dressed in a black business suit, with a white shirt and blood-red tie. A handkerchief, the same blood-red as his tie, was nestled in a breast pocket; it acted as a splash of color against the blackness of the suit itself. Dark brown hair was cut and styled as immaculately as his suit, and his gray eyes flashed behind wire-rimmed glasses.

His name was Bolivar Trask. Financier. Industrialist. Armorer.

He allowed his gaze to flicker across the people that were sitting before him. The powers behind the powerful. These were the people that made real decisions regarding the defense of their respective nations.

A gesture, and the scene that was being displayed behind him changed. Once again it showed the green blob of light as it struck the guard. That singular moment in time when his entire body glowed that eternally happy green.

He watched them as they digested the scene that had just played out on the large screen behind him. As the ramifications of it settled into their minds.

"Gentlemen," he said. His voice a tight, cultured baritone that almost echoed in the silent room as those people focused their attention onto him. "As you can see we are facing a new enemy. Someone who can appear anywhere. Who can destroy things with just a spoken word. Who can kill with just the wave of a stick. Worse, they obviously have no concerns or cares on who they use their powers on or when they do."

The head of the NSA leaned forward, and temples his fingers in front of him. "I saw only one man in that video."

Track shook his head slightly, almost bemusedly.

"Yes, that was one man." He gestured towards the screen and different images began appearing behind him. "If it was but one man, I would not have brought this up. But as you can see there is more than one of these...people out there. They have stores and hidden homes and they are recruiting children. I have video and pictures of them throughout the United States and Great Britain. A score of the Trask Savings and Loans have been robbed in such a manner as this video suggests. And the earlier video showed one of them breaking into a Trask Diamond Exchange. These are dangerous and deadly people. And they are recruiting."

As he had been speaking dozens of images of people waving a stick and having those lights appear had been down the screen behind him. Hundreds of pictures, of different people and places all with those sticks. Including one horrific scene of a dozen of the black-robed, skull masked men as they slaughtered everyone in a train station. The final scene showed a woman leading a family of three into a dingy pub in the middle of London.

"Every year a handful of children drop out of their schools and just disappear. According to all records they are at school and are not truant, but they are at no school that can be found. There are no records for them, above and beyond the fact that they are at school and are not truant. They just disappear."

Trask allowed his gaze to switch between each person in the room before he continued speaking.

"Make no mistake, gentlemen. War is here. These people are already attacking us. They are stealing from us. They are killing us. And we currently have no defenses against them. There are no plans of attack. There are no ways to track them or even know who they really are or what all they can do."

One of the generals gestured towards the screen. "And what would you have us do?"

Trask smiled at the man. It was a cold, predatory smile. "I've been working on something new for this. A new defensive platform. A new weapon to both defend us and to go out and hunt done these things they way they are currently hunting us."

He gestured once more and a series of schematics appeared on the screen. The schematic showed something that was vaguely humanoid, and pointed out a series of weapons and armors and power sources. He turned a harsh, almost manic grin onto those that were sitting around him.

"Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the Sentinel Program."

**3 June, 1996, London England **

The First Lady of the United States of America glanced out the window of the limousine she was riding in. Beside her, the wife of the United Kingdom's Prime Minister was speaking softly into a phone concerning some charity or another.

She sighed, and leaned back against the seat as she considered the legal troubles her husband was getting into while she was finally finishing up this particular humanitarian tour.

There was a street sign flash past indicating that the were just turning onto the Brockdale Bridge, and was about to turn to her hostess and say something when she noticed something odd flash past her window. She stared harder, and grasped the other woman's arm, and pointed at something she could not quite believe.

"Is... is that woman riding a broom?"

She blinked again, and was more certain of the fact that it was a woman that appeared to be in her early forties, riding a broom and dressed all in black. Beside the woman two men, also dressed in black robes, but these wearing odd, skull-shaped masks, fell into a flight formation.

She felt more than anything else, the thunk of the transition from standard road to the bridge itself, while her focus was almost entirely upon the three people on brooms.

She blinked twice, and glanced at the other woman in the car with her, noticing the wide-eyed look of surprise on her face as well.

There was a flare of red light, and suddenly the bridge twisted. She screamed as the limousine dropped as the bridge itself fell away from them.

There was a sudden jerk of impact as the car slammed hard into the water, and another a moment later as the second limousine that had been closely following them dropped on top of them.

**4 June, 1996, London England**

Cornelius Fudge stepped into the office of the Prime Minister. He twisted his bowler hat slightly. He glanced at the other man, noticing that he appeared drawn and worn, and ages older than he had appeared the last time Cornelius was in this office just a few weeks ago.

"What is it now?" The Prime Minister asked, resignation in his voice. "I've a service to plan, what with the Brockdale Bridge disaster."

"Ah," Fudge said, as he glanced around the room. "That... that's what I'm here to discuss. I'm sorry to say that that was Lord-Thingie's doing."

The Prime Minister froze at his desk, his hands clamped tight against the edge, as he stared hard at the Minister for Magic.

"You," he began in a low, tight voice. "You mean to say that its... it's your lot that has done this? This magical terrorist of yours that you kept denying even the existence of? That you said was still dead? He's the one that's responsible for that bridge falling apart as it did?"

"Ah.. uhm.. I'm afraid so."

Fudge watched, as the Prime Minister closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. When those eyes opened again, he stepped back in slight fear. Anger and rage seemed to twirl in those eyes.

"Get out. We'll take care of this."

"But-"

"Out, Fudge!" The Prime Minister demanded in a hard, harsh voice. "We'll take care of everything."

Fudge started for a moment longer, before departing through the fireplace. He would never tell a soul that he had been deathly terrified of that muggle, and it was all he could do to not run from the room.

Once he was back in the safety of his own office, Fudge pulled out a large bottle of firewhiskey and proceeded to drink it all.

**19 June, 1996, London England **

Bolivar Trask settled into the seat. Around him sat spies, and lawmakers and military officials. He was again in the hallowed halls of power. Elbow to elbow with the Powers That Be of two nations. His own, and the United Kingdom.

At 3 pm exactly, the door was closed, and a man stood up. He wore a nondescript suit; one that almost appeared to have been bought off the rack. In fact the only reason that it would be assumed that he had not done so, was how clearly choreographed his entire demeanor and dress was. He appeared for too perfectly nondescript for it to be anything but intentional.

The man approached the lectern, and glanced around for a moment. "My name is Geoffery Franks, and I'm the director of MI18. For those who have not heard of MI18, we are responsible for military applications and defense in regards to threats of a supra-natural origin."

Trask sat up straighter at this comment. It had been twenty years since he first proposed the Sentinel program, and this was the first time that any government had ever announced that there were non-natural threats in the world. Even if it was occurring in an off-the-record meeting such as this.

"Sixteen days ago," the man continued, apparently oblivious to Trask's interest. "The Brockdale Bridge here in London suddenly and unexpectedly fell apart killing 17 and injuring another 22. Among the dead were the First Lady of the United States, and the wife of the Prime Minister."

He gestured, and an image of a woman appeared.

Her hair was a wild mess, and her eyes seemed to flare with passion.

"This woman's name is Bellatrix Lestrange. She is a witch, and along with two unknown compatriots was responsible for bringing down this bridge."

The image changed, this time to show a grainy shot of three people on brooms, flying alongside the bridge in question.

Trask leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers as he considered what was being said here, and what was not.

"Mr. Franks," Trask began, once more shifting forward at the table. "Why exactly have you asked for us to be here today?"

Franks turned towards him, a tight grimace almost hidden on his face. "The Prime Minister, and Her Majesty, has requested that we derive some technology to find, and contain these threats to Her Realm. Additionally, she wishes for a form of protection against these threats above and beyond what we currently have. MI18 is primarily an intelligence gathering outfit, and while we employ a few mages, we rarely have any successes. To be frank, gentlemen, we need options and answers."

Trask nodded, and pulled out his notebook computer from the satchel at his feet. He moved forward, opening it, and connecting it, before anyone else could move. Within three minutes, he had it turned on, and connected to his own private network where he stored information on his own projects.

Another twenty seconds, and these scenes were being projected onto a screen.

He glanced around the room at the people in it. Quite a few he recognized, and absently noted that there were a number of them that had been in a similar room the last time he had shown off this technology.

"Twenty years ago," he began. "I stood in front of some of you, and some of your predecessors and warned everyone of an impending, and upcoming threat. Of a war that was brewing if not already here. And for a few years it appeared I was right, before it all stopped in the fall of 1981."

He absently noted that Franks had tensed in regards to that particular date. Pushing the thought away as something to be considered at a later time, he continued his speech.

"At that time, the Sentinel Program was officially placed on hiatus. It was deemed unimportant, and unnecessary since the troubles had faded. Despite that, I continued the program, designing my Sentinels and even building a few prototypes."

He grinned almost maliciously.

"Gentlemen, I have your answer. I have your solution, and it is the Sentinel."

He gestured towards the screen behind him, that was looping through a short video, of an almost human-sized robot that was flying through the air before coming in for a landing. Most of its body was a dull, matte black. A cowl of a shiny purple material covered the shoulders, and part of the chest as well as most of the head. It's eyes, and a large circle on its chest glowed a dull yellow.


	8. This Ugly, Yet Beautiful World

Adrenaline flooded his body, snapping his mind instantly alert and awake. His eyes were still closed, but he could feel his magic as it lashed out, trying to attack whoever had activated his flight or fight responses. The flare of magic faded as it revealed there was no other being in the room with him.

His heart thudded, and he gulped at the air. Slowly, he sat up, his chest heaving as he struggled against his body's natural reactions to the nightmares he had been having. Absently, he ran his hand through his sweat-slicked hair as he stared hard at his lap.

He sighed, and glanced at the dirty mirror attached to the dresser. He looked old. Despite it being only a few days before his eighteenth birthday, he looked old. His cheeks were sallow and he was still too thin from all the months he had been on the run-much less the decade of abuse and privation that he had suffered prior to attending Hogwarts. Dark circles beneath his eyes, indicated his lack of sleep, and his hair had a smattering of white throughout it.

He sighed, as he scrubbed at his face, and then stood up from the bed, and slowly ambled over to the window.

He looked out into the utterly mundane, and almost flat, world of Privet Drive.

This was the street where he had grown up. The very house even. Yet, he still felt an intruder here; an outsider. He felt that he was an other; someone, something, that just did not belong on this quiet street with its perfect little fences and perfect little gardens and those perfect little houses that looked exactly like the next.

He was different. He did not belong.

Not here.

Not in the wizarding world.

And sadly, not in her arms.

Again, he pushed thoughts of her away from his mind, and looked out at the early morning. Watched in silence as the perfectly normal people who lived on this street began those perfectly normal tasks which began their perfectly normal day.

Silently, he gripped the window sill harder, as a pain stretched across his chest. This was a familiar pain, one he had felt time and again as he had suffered here during those long summers.

He had fled here after the final battle, after all those months on the run, waging a war against an entrenched Pureblood Elite. He had fled here because he knew that no one from the wizarding world would ever look for him here.

After all, everyone knew that he had hated living with his relatives. That he had despised this house, and everyone that had lived within its walls.

That was what had made it so attractive as a place to retreat to. What made it the perfect place he could go to hide and hopefully heal. A place where he could finally forget her, and move on.

Or at least that had been his hope.

He still could not believe what had happened back in May at the final battle against Voldemort.

Not that he had lived. No, he had expected that. He had always hidden just how good he was. He had always hidden his intelligence and his powers and just how far ahead he was actually studying. As well as what he studied independently, outside of classes.

At least he had hidden such things until it came time to teach others how to pass their N.E.W.T.S. Hiding his intelligence and abilities was a lesson he had learned early and quick. He was to never let anyone know how smart or how good he was at something. Especially, if it was in competition against someone else.

No, what he really had not been able to understand, was Hermione kissing Ron. He should have realized just what it meant, but he instead he been too focused on following Dumbledore's bouncing ball and dealing with Riddle, that he missed all the signs. Even that sort of crush on the redhead during their sixth year, was a rather obvious flag in hindsight. Hermione was an intelligent girl; smart and driven. There was no way that she would have fancied someone as thickheaded and mean to her, as Ron Weasley had always been.

Sighing, and pushing those thoughts from his mind, he walked over to the desk. Laying on top of it, was the letter he had been composing to Hermione.

The one that originally was to wish her a happy life with Ron. The one that said he would always love her, but he had to escape everything that had happened in May. He had to escape everything that had happened over the previous seven years. He had to see if he could actually find someone new for himself.

Instead he discovered the potions and the lies and all of the other things which the Weasley's and Dumbledore had done to the two of them.

So, he had killed them all. The "victimized" Death Eaters who were escaping trails due to the Imperious defense. And of course the Weasleys, for what they had done to him and Hermione.

Anger swelled tightly, as he remembered Ginny killing her. Again his magic flared slightly, causing his aura to flicker into the visible spectrum as green flames that raced across his body.

He exhaled slowly, pushing the emotions away; placing them in the back of his mind as a thing to be dealt with later.

Satisfied that he was not going to explode, he began dressing for the day. Sturdy trousers, that were black in color and had what seemed like a dozen pockets; one of which had been expanded, and currently held four shrunken trunks; trunks which contained the entire contents of both the Black and Potter vaults and the libraries and heirlooms from all the Black and Potter properties. A black shirt topped that, and then his boots. Next he armed himself: wands, knives and even a pistol; an old Walther PPK that was mixed in with some of what appeared to be his maternal grandfather's documents and government service awards.

Next he slipped into an old Chesterfield coat that he had found mixed in with his parents belongings; one that was not so long as to be distracting, but long enough to cover the holsters and their contained weapons. He had also added a couple extra things to it to hide just a few more odds and ends. Things which had made cleaning up after all the Death Eaters who had managed to escape prosecution after the final death of Riddle just that much easier.

Finally, he picked up a wide-brimmed fedora. Absently, he brushed away some lint that clung to its felt before he settled it onto his head.

He cast a final glance at the mirror, appraising his image there and he could not help but laugh. He looked like some type of action hero from a movie. Maybe one of those old westerns from the colonies.

Shaking his head, he picked up his packet of travel papers, and started towards the door. It was time that he found himself a home.

A real one.

With a final glance at the mirror checking over his appearance, he turned and placed his hand on the door knob to leave the room, and England, behind.

At that moment, reality shifted. It twisted around him, through him, and squeezed at his spine. He could feel odd magics whispering across his skin, and he raised a hand to realize that he could see the magic as it arced between his fingers.

At least until those fingers started fading away.

He cursed, as he tried his best to understand what was happening. He could feel that this magic was not aimed directly at him, but rather was something that was affecting him from elsewhere. He pushed with his magic, trying to shift it, to make whatever this was change. To force it to allow him to remain rooted here in this room and place. Instead, he felt the magic pulling at him, twisting through his intentions to leave, and find a new place to be. The magic knew he had been leaving in order to search for a new home, and as such was working with his own magic to make him leave.

Then lightning slammed through the roof, and struck the floor at his feet. The pure electrical energy washed over him, and soothed the angry, agitated magic even as the floorboards exploded.

It was in that glow of power, that he felt a tug that reminded him of a portkey. Except instead of pulling from his navel, it pulled from right between his shoulder blades on his back.

Reality spun away, and the world itself disappeared into a cacophony of colors that twisted around him in odd, disturbing shapes and masses. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the lights and colors that strobed through whatever magics he was traveling, but that did not help as even with his eyes tightly closed he could still see and feel the colors as they writhed around him.

There was crack, and a back-flow of energy as he was thrown harshly to the ground. His magical senses flared out, and he felt himself almost surrounded by wizards.

There were a few voices raised in a ritualized chant, and he rolled over and grabbed at his wand, pulling it from the the holster on his left wrist, even as he generated a wand-less shield with the magic flaring and flowing down his right hand.

He finished his roll in a crouch, with his wand aimed towards the strongest concentration of magic he could feel. With a half-finished thought, he allowed his aura to flare into life. A simple parlor trick but one that had the tendency to agitate the senses of other mages. Especially those not strong enough to do it themselves.

"Welcome!" A familiar, warm, grandfatherly voice called out in greeting at that moment, and Harry's eyes snapped open.

He found himself staring at someone he knew had died at the end of his sixth year. Someone that he had watched die, while Harry himself had been held under a body bind cast by that same person.

Someone who apparently still wore horribly clashing robes.

Anger reared itself in his chest, burning and twisting. In the weeks that he had spent cleaning up, he had found and then read Dumbledore's journals, and even reviewed dozens of memories the old man had left in his penseive. Things on how he was forcefully separating Hermione and him, pushing them off towards their respective Weasley. It was a subtle psychological twisting, one made all the stronger by the potions and the charms. That was the primary reason for the silence after his fourth and fifth years, for Ron getting the prefect's badge. It was to establish Ron and Hermione as together in Harry's mind, as well as hers.

He exhaled slowly, gaining control of his emotions. When he spoke, his voice was flat. Almost emotionless. "I watched you die."

"Indeed," Said the same voice, and Harry wondered just how this impostor managed to get both the inflection and that damnable eye twinkle. "But that's not exactly why we have brought you here."

"What do you mean by 'brought me here?'"

And before the fake headmaster could reply, a voice he had not heard in over a month spoke his name. Her voice was a smooth alto, yet there was a hesitant tremor in it. A hint of surprise and pain.

"H-Harry?"

His body tensed, even as his heart sped up in his chest. He opened eyes that he had not realized that he had closed, and shifted his attention towards where the voice had came from.

In the doorway stood Hermione, a book in one hand, and the other clenched up in the front of her shirt. This was Hermione. But not as he had last seen her. This was not the nearly nineteen year old woman that had seen the same horrors he had in the war. This was not the woman that had starved and froze in that tent alongside him.

This was the Hermione that he had last recognized. The one that had existed before their sixth year. The one that existed before the loyalty and jealousy potions. Before the love potions. She looked younger and healthier, though her eyes were rimmed in red, and dark circles beneath them indicated that she had not been sleeping recently shadowed her face. Her hair just hinted at the waviness that her bushy hair had shifted to between their fourth and fifth years.

Even as these thoughts and what he was seeing slammed through him, she had moved and thrown her arms around him. He instinctively curled himself around her. Held her tightly against himself, and breathed in deeply of her hair.

It was a flowery scent, one that reminded him oddly of the Burrow. As well as that initial potions lesson in his sixth year when the class had been introduced to Amortentia.

He felt Hermione pulling away, and reluctantly, he released her. As she separated enough to see her, he gave her a smile.

"Oh god, Harry. The Order had told me you had been kissed."

With that said, she molded herself to him once again, and initiated a deep, almost needy, kiss.

He had no idea what else he could do, but happily return it.


	9. Redux

**Death's Door**

* * *

Harry Potter's eyes snapped open and he stared at the plain white ceiling above his head.

He blinked twice, quickly, and then stared at that ceiling some more.

Thousands of little bumps gave it a roughed up appearance. White crown molding edged the corners of the room, and light gray walls could be seen beneath that molding. The only thing that stopped this from looking just like his bedroom ceiling back on Privet Drive was the lack of any form of lighting or vents in the ceiling.

Instead, this ceiling glowed. It was a diffuse light. Subtle but omnipresent and with a slightly bluish tint.

But despite the glow it was fundamentally a plain ceiling.

Nothing of importance, and nothing of effect.

But it was a ceiling that he recognized. He had seen it before. Had been in this place, in this exact location and position, and staring up at this ceiling. He knew what it was. Knew what it meant.

It meant he had failed.

That he had died.

Again.

He blinked twice as memories slammed into him.

He knew his name and his history. It was all right there waiting for him. A litany of life experiences.

Finding out he was a wizard. Making friends. Making enemies. Laughing. Studying. Fighting. All those thousands of little experiences that added together to make a life.

But those were not the only memories that had slammed through his awareness. He had also gotten a list, a long list, of death experiences.

Everything from being beaten to death by an enraged Uncle Vernon, to the latest of having Umbridge of all people hit him with the killing curse. Apparently, he had made her even crazier on that last life than he had on the previous 124 that he remembered. Or the previous 726 that he had not remembered while alive, but remembered now that he was dead again.

In response to that thought, he cursed. A lot. Repeatedly. And loudly.

"You know," said a harsh voice, from somewhere off to his left. "It was bad enough that you kept dying when you didn't have your memories. But these past nineteen times we've let you keep them! Just how inept are you?"

Harry Potter shifted his head and glanced towards the voice. There sitting at a old-fashioned wooden desk, was what for all purposes was a man. He looked generic; as plain as his ceiling. There was nothing to distinguish him from any random guy on the street. He could have been a banker or an insurance salesman. He could have been any one of millions of people.

Of course, Harry knew better. Harry had met this man many times now. He knew his name was Jeffery Anders. He knew that he was at one time a banker of some sort in New York. Harry even knew that this guy had been placed into death's version of social services, because he had jumped out of a twentieth floor window on October 29th, 1929.

While he knew all these things, he really did not want to know any of them. He fervently wished that he had never met him. Did not actually want to meet him. Did not even really want to know him. After all, most people are never in a big hurry to meet their Grim Reaper.

Instead of responding to the man. Harry decided that cursing was a much more appropriate response.

"Enough!" Jeffery said harshly. Thus interrupting what was building up to be a quite impressive rant featuring concepts both profane and scatological. "And what are we supposed to do with you? Fate is in a right tizzy over your continued stupidity. I'm amazed at your sheer ability to die in so many _unimpressive_ ways. How hard is this for you to understand and to do your job?"

Harry sat up, and glared at the man.

After all, what's the worst that could happen. He was already dead. Apparently for the eight hundred and fiftieth time.

He knew that he would not be judged just yet, because he had to get things "right" according to Fate. He was just going to be sent back in time. Or maybe shunted into a slightly divergent alternate reality. He remembered there being something of a debate on exactly what it was they were doing with him two or three hundred deaths ago.

"I blame the rules you all keep saddling me with. Sure I have my memories, but I can't do anything about anything. You want me to keep trying the same things over and over and over again. How many times do I have to let Hermione go to the ball with that Bulgarian jackass or let Ginny potion me up before you lot will realize that I'm kind of stuck. I have to let things play out according to what happened previously in order to make my memories still be useful. So, of course the same thing is going to happen again and again and again."

The man's face became harder. Stonier.

Harry ignored it, and kept on talking.

"Sometimes you lot tell me to confide in Dumbledore, and he turns out to be either evil or just senile. Other times you tell me that I have to finalize my soul-bond with Hermione, but I can't do it until we're living in that bloody, freezing tent in what's supposed to be my seventh year. And of course this last time, you tell me that Umbridge is unimportant and shouldn't be bothered over, and she actually manages to kill me! How embarrassing is that? I have to admit that Umbridge killed me! No one is going to let me live that down! I bet Hermione isn't even crying over my death. She's probably doesn't even want to admit that she knows me."

"Your deaths are not something to discuss or cheer about. The Powers That Be are not happy at your continual ability to die!"

Harry could not help the laughter that spilled out from him.

Jeffery just glared at him for the entire five minutes.

Finally, Harry looked at him. "You know, I'm done. What's the worst that happens if I don't go back?"

Jeffery shrugged his shoulders. "The end of everything."

Harry grimaced slightly, and glanced around, hoping for a window that he could stare out of, even though he was not expecting one to be there. There had never been a window in any of his past deaths. At least he had never remembered one before. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"I'm not talking about just the end of the Earth. I'm talking the end of everything. If Tom Riddle does not get to meet me, then our entire branch of reality will stop. That's why it's so important that you do not die."

Harry shrugged his shoulders again, as he focused on Jeffery. "And? At this point, I'm not so sure that's a bad thing."

Jeffery shook his head. "Well, it's a good thing that it's not up to you."

Harry bolted to his feet, horror finding its way onto his face. "No! I'm refusing to go."

Jeffery's smile was somewhat malicious. "It was never actually your choice. But, I think I'll wipe your memories, maybe a few lives without them will settle you back down. Never had to listen to your lip, or your cursing, when you didn't remember your previous lives. Bye now."

Before Harry could respond, a tunnel opened up beneath him. Thus, he did what anyone in that situation would do.

He screamed.

He screamed as he fell through the darkness. Screamed as the tunnel twisted around him, swirling him about. Screamed as the darkness closed in, capturing him. Screamed as the darkness tore at his sense of self, as it tried to pull out his memories.

He screamed.

A booming crash echoed around him. Through him. Shook him to his core. He could feel it as the sound of it twisted around him.

A second boom. This one squeezed at him. It reverberated in time with his own screams.

He screamed.

A third boom, and he realized that he was not falling any longer. That he had stopped, and he was once more laying on his back.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a brown ceiling. Dark timbers, blackened by age, mold and the middle of the night, criss-crossed this ceiling. He blinked and shut his mouth, cutting off his screams.

Harry sat up, and looked around. To his right was an ugly couch, and his cousin, looking much younger than the last time Harry had seen him. The much larger boy was sitting up and staring straight ahead, his piggy eyes locked onto the door to the shack. A look of pure fright etched onto his face. Harry glanced to his left, and saw the last remnants of a fire in the fireplace, and a hearth made up entirely of dirty and dusty bricks.

Still screams seemed to be echoing through the room. Harry knew it was not him, so he glanced around and found his Aunt and Uncle in the doorway to the shack's only bedroom. It was his Uncle who was screaming; loud, crass, demands for answers from the door couple with threats to get whoever it was to go away.

A fourth boom, and the door fell inwards.

At that moment, lightning cracked outside. A bright flare of light which back lit the massive form that stood in the doorway. A gust of wind at that same moment spread droplets of rain throughout the room.

Then the lightning died to be replaced with thunder.

The figure moved further into the room, allowing the light from the dying fire to fall onto him. He was dressed in a coarse hunter's jacket. His hair and beard was black and wire-like. Wild. Unkempt. Beady black eyes flickered between everyone in the room.

Harry knew him: Rubeus Hagrid.

Harry could not help himself. His lips twisted into a grin. One that would have sent anyone who had known him in his previous life running.

After all, he remembered.

And he remembered without any of those pesky rules and handicaps that Jeffery kept placing on him in his previous lives. He was back here, on his birthday before his first year at Hogwarts, and he remembered. He remembered it all.

Every life. Every chance he had taken. Every success and failure. Every death.

He remembered everything.

Absently, he noted that Vernon had apparently made Hagrid mad by insulting Dumbledore. Not that Harry minded anyone insulting Dumbledore. After all, he had plans in that regard himself.

It was at that moment, that he felt something different. It started as a shaky thing in his stomach. One that spread. It escaped him as a small giggle for a moment. One he clasped his hand over his mouth to contain.

After all, the Dursleys had never liked anything that humored Harry.

But he could not keep it in. The giggle became a laugh.

And this was more along the lines of a mad, insane cackle than a normal laugh. It was the laugh heard from dime-store melodrama villains. One that would not have been out of place in any early Frankenstein movie had Harry ever seen one of those before.

A small part of him had seen that the Dursleys and Hagrid had stopped their conversation. He had heard the boom of the shotgun as Hagrid twisted its barrel up and towards the ceiling. He had even noticed that the conversations, or mutual screaming, had stopped as they all stared at him. And all of them had a sort of horrified confusion on their faces.

One Harry found even more hilarious.

Finally, his laughter settled down, and he grinned at them all. It was a dark grin. A grin that promised retribution and pain, and quite a bit of embarrassment for someone. A grin that Padfoot would be quite proud of seeing on his godson's face.

Another small chuckle escaped him as he rubbed his hands together and a single thought twisted its way through his mind. _This is going to be fun._


	10. Bunch of Mish-Mash

**AN - **Three different bits and pieces, each of which is too small to go by themselves...and in truth, none of which I'm really happy with...

...

...

* * *

**The Tower**

A/N Writing Prompt: Rorschach's list #26

* * *

Harry entered into the common room, his face flush, and his eyes sparkling with excitement. He quickly glanced around the room until his gaze landed on his best friend. As usual, she was sitting by the fire, her focus mostly on a rather large book settled on her lap.

A grin broke out on his face as he rushed over and dropped into the seat next to her, jostling her quite a bit.

"Harry!" she scolded as the book slipped from her lap and dropped to the floor with a surprisingly loud noise.

He just laughed slightly, as he watched her, with a slightly punch-drunk expression on his face.

She glared at him for a moment before picking up her book. Then stopped, and really looked at him hard. Her eyes narrowed for a moment.

"You're up to something."

He blinked, and quickly shook his head. "No, I'm not."

"Yes you are. And no, I'm not getting involved."

He laughed, and grinned at her again. "Tell me. What does Hogwart's: A History say about the astronomy tower?"

Hermione blinked twice at that apparent non sequitur before explaining a number of details such as when the tower was last updated, how high it was, and the number of nails that went into the construction of the steps, and finally that in 1976 the head boy and head girl had received 102 detentions for being partially dressed, and out-of-bounds in the astronomy tower after curfew.

Harry waved all that away. "No, I mean about the _ledge _of the astronomy tower?"

"Oh," she replied. "There's a ward on it. Anyone that jumps off, is grabbed in what is fundamentally a _levicorpus_, and shifted back to the belvedere. Why?"

He just grinned again, and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Come on. There's something that I want to do with you..."

Reluctantly, she followed behind him. As they left the room, she glanced at a nearby clock and noted the time. "You do realize we only have fifteen minutes before curfew."

He nodded and began dragging her through the halls faster.

She sighed, as she realized where she was being lead. A few moments later, her thoughts were confirmed as he pulled her through the door into the stairwell of the astronomy tower.

"Harry, I'm not sure what type of girl you think I am...but, well, we're not even dating."

He shot a quick glance over his shoulder at her, and smiled even brighter. "We can rectify that if you want."

She blushed brightly, and shook her head. "Just tell me what you're planning on doing with me at the top of the tower?"

Again, another look. This one coupled with an innocent smile. "What do you mean, 'Mione?"

"Don't you remember what I was saying about the couple in 1976?"

"Yes."

"And don't you know what most boys and girls who go to the tower are doing?"

He laughed. "I know, but don't worry, your virtue is safe from me. At least for tonight tonight. I have something else to show you."

She sighed and began the long trek up the stairs, Harry almost running in his efforts to get to the top.

Finally, they reached the top of the tower, and Harry rushed to the battlements, and leaned over the edge.

She sighed, and followed behind, her pace much, much slower. She had no real desire to be anywhere near the tower's edge.

As she reached him, he grinned at her, and climbed up onto the battlement. Then with a grin he jumped out away from the tower.

She screamed his name, and rushed to the edge. She looked down into the seemingly limitless abyss that lay beneath the tower's edge, her mind absently noting the rocky shoreline at the base of the tower where the water from the Black Lake swirled. His name echoed back at her. Horrified, she watched him fall through the open air.

A part of her noted magical power building around her, an itch just beneath her skin that indicated activated wards. Suddenly there was a loud twang.

She blinked, as Harry seemed to jerk to a stop in mid-air for a moment. Then he came hurtling back towards the top of the tower.

Within seconds, he was stumbling to a stop beside her. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, and that punch-drunk glaze was back on his face again.

She blinked. Then balled a fist, and hit him in the chest. Then again. Then a third time.

"Harry James Potter! Do you know how scared you made me?"

He blinked, and then rubbed at his head. "But you just told me that there were wards. You knew what would happen to someone jumping off. Besides its fun!"

"Fun?" She all but snarled. Then she hit him again.

"Yeah!" He responded with a short, sharp laugh. "Dudley was watching this extreme sports show on the telly, and there was this group of Yanks that was jumping off a bridge with just a rope tied around them. Dudley wanted to try it, and he forced Uncle Vernon to find someone that does it here in England. Vernon made me try it first, to make sure it was safe for Dudley."

Hermione glared at him. "You went bungee jumping, and liked it?"

"Yes."

"Then what the hell possessed you to think 'Hey, the Astronomy Tower is high, let me try it there, despite the fact that I don't have a bungee cord?'"

He blinked. "Uh... I... well, it's like this...I.."

She crossed her arms.

He rubbed one hand through his hair a few times. "Uhm..."

Her glare got harder, and she started tapping a foot.

Harry's shoulders slumped, and he glanced around the tower top. "I could feel the wards up here, and figured out what they are and do. When I realized that they were catch and return wards, then I decided to try it out."

She stared at him, her mouth opened for a moment. then it snapped shut, and storm clouds gathered on her face.

He fidgeted, and glanced over her shoulder.

"That's advanced magic. Well beyond the quality of work that you usually turn in."

He blushed, and glanced around again. "Uhh..."

"I'm waiting."

"I under-perform on purpose to not make Ron jealous?"

"You... you do what? All this time I've been trying to get you to study harder and you do _what_?"

He stumbled back a step as she stomped forward. Then he turned, and jumped over the edge of the tower once again.

"Harry James Potter! Get back here!"

* * *

**MI18**

"Freak! Get down here now!"

Harry sighed as his uncle's voice echoed through the house. He sat up in his bed, his muscles and joints complaining at the movement. After all, he had been laying in the bed for nearly twenty hours now. He just saw no reason to get up after the death of his godfather.

He knew he had to though. The other option of ignoring his uncle would not lead to a good end.

With that in mind, he stood and glanced at the window. Hedwig still had not returned. Part off him was upset, but mostly he was glad his pet wasn't here to suffer as she had in previous years.

He made his way downstairs, and found his uncle in the living room with a lady he had never seen before. In addition there were two other men in dark suits standing at opposite ends of the room.

He watched her for a moment, noting the air of authority she carried in addition to the nice clothes. Grey hair was cut short and blue eyes sparkled with intelligence.

Facing his uncle, he said, "yes?"

The walrus like man just grunted and pointed at the woman. "She's from the government and wants to talk to you."

With that, the lady stood and faced him. For a moment he wanted to shrink away. She reminded him of McGonagall, Tonks and Moody all rolled into one person.

Her hand shot out. "It's a pleasure to merry you, Mister Potter. My name is Dame Jane Wells. I'm the director for MI18, more commonly known as the Magical Information Service, for Her Majesty's government."

Harry blinked as he shook her hand.

"Uhm, how can I help Her Majesty's government?"

The woman smiled brightly at him. "We've heard about the troubles happening in the Magical world, and even some about your...adventures there. What I'm here to do is to recruit you."

"Recruit me?"

"Yes, Mister Potter. The Queen needs your service in order to protect Her subjects."

Harry blinked for a moment wondering if his life could get any weirder. Finally, he shrugged his shoulder and gave her a short nod. "Sure why not."

"Perfect," the woman said with a clap of her hands. "Now let's gather your belongings and make our way to the training facility to get you checked in and registered."

* * *

**Gremlins...**

Harry stepped into the dimly lit shop. An older Chinese man, with long flowing beard sat behind the counter. A long pipe was in his mouth, and clouds of white smoke flowed from the man everyone he exhaled.

Harry's nose twitched as the acrid tinge of the smoke assaulted his sinuses. He blinked twice, trying to keep the years from his eyes.

Rubbing his eyes slightly, he took a step to the left and jostled a cage. An odd squeak drew his attention. He stopped, and leaned down.

Before him was a box that had been painted red and black. Golden highlights were etched across the corners and the front in odd patterns. The entire thing just looked ancient and mystical.

There was another soft chirp from the box.

Hesitantly, he lifted the lid, and offered inside. Blue eyes stared back at him. They seemed to glow with an internal light.

A haunting melody seemed to glow from the creature; a song as soothing in its own way as the song of the phoenix.

Harry opened the lid more so he could see the creature better. It was furry, with the same coloring of a calico cat that used to live down at number seven before his aunt's gossip had driven the two men away. Long ears were held out horizontally from the eyes. And an almost human nose sat above a small mouth.

If Harry had to guess he would say that some crazed wizard had attempted to create a chimera from a lemur, cat and a bat.

Its blue eye caught his own again and he could feel something twitch in his chest. In his magic.

"What are you?" He said to the creature in a soft almost reverent voice.

"It's a mogwai."

As he had not been expecting a response, Harry let out a short yelp in surprise as he dropped the lid to the box and spun himself around. Standing there was a Chinese boy. He was dressed in what almost appeared to be muggle clothes, but they were all made out of some shiny material.

As the lid closed with a crack of wood hitting wood, the creature inside the box let out a yelp of indignation.


	11. Redux pt 2

**The Keeper of Keys**

* * *

Harry blinked as he realized that everyone was staring at him. Of course, after so many years of re-doing his life and going through Hogwarts, he was somewhat used to being stared at.

Still, there was an odd undertone to the staring that disturbed him slightly. So, he decided that his laughing could be stopped and he just settled down to watch them again.

After a moment, Hagrid spoke. "'Arry? Yeh alrigh' there?"

He smiled happily at the large man. "Of course I am. Never better. Disturbingly tall men breaking into our house in the middle of the night is always something that leaves me feeling warm an tingly on the inside."

Again, there was that pregnant pause of expectation where everyone was just waiting for something to happen.

Instead, Hagrid just coughed, before pulling a crumpled letter out of his pocket. "Alrigh'. Ah've got a letter here fer yeh."

"No!" Bellowed Vernon. "We won't have it! We swore when we took the freak in that we'd not have _that_ in our house. He won't be going."

Hagrid glowered at the other man. "Ah shut it, yeh great lump."

"Going where?" Harry asked innocently.

"Why to Hogwarts o'course!"

Harry blinked, and looked around the room, before once again focusing on Hagrid "Of course... What's Hogwarts?"

"It's the wizarding school."

Harry nodded. "Is it a boarding one?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll happily sign up. Anything's better than having to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs."

"Boy!"

"What!"

Harry smirked as Vernon paled under the yelling which Hagrid was giving him. There was some measure of sheer joy that he felt at the gameskeeper's screaming and carrying on in defense of him.

After a few minutes, Vernon had waddled off to the other room, dragging Petunia and Dudley with him. Harry watched the large man, as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

"Wanting to kill Uncle Vernon is a perfectly respectable response to meeting him. Just so you know."

Hagrid gave a massive shake of his head. "Let's just be on our way?"

Harry nodded, and followed him out into the darkness of the night. He hunched slightly into the rain, as it soaked him, and within moments was sitting beside Hagrid in the small boat that had carried Harry and his relatives to the rock on which the shack stood.

With a quick glance around, Harry focused on Hagrid. "How did you get here?"

The beard in the vicinity of where his mouth should be shifted slightly, and Harry assumed the large man was smiling. "Well, Dumbledore has a... friend that's able to help folks travel. He was kind enough to give me a lift out here."

Then Hagrid looked left and then right real quickly before leaning in towards Harry. "Now, I'm not technically supposed to be doin' magic nows that I've found you. But you won't tell if I... make our trip a bit easier?"

Harry smiled brightly. "Not at all."

With that, Hagrid lifted a small, pink, girl's umbrella, and then tapped it against the edge of the boat. There was a wrenching motion, as it jerked away from the where it had been beached and all but flew across the water to the city dock. A trip that had took thirty minutes going out to the rock, took five with Hagrid's help.

As the boat finally settled down, Harry and Hagrid climbed out of it. Hagrid looked to be about to tap the edge of the boat, which Harry assumed would send it back to the rock, when he touched Hagrid's arm.

"So, I'm supposed to get all sorts of things for school, but where can I get this stuff?"

Hagrid straightened while never actually spelling the boat back, and nodded his head. "Oh, you just has to know where to look to find it, is all. We'll be going to Diagon Alley, as its the biggest and the nearest shopping for us. "

Harry started walking away from the boat at this point, heading towards the train station in the distance. "And, how am I supposed to pay for it? Uncle Vernon doesn't even buy me clothes, there's no way he'd pay for my school supplies."

Hagrid took two steps, and quickly caught up with him, before responding. "Don't you worry about that none. Your parents made sure that you were taken care of."

Harry shot a quick glance backwards at the boat that they were leaving behind, before nodding his head once more. "I see..."

The next morning, Harry woke up and looked around. They were in one of the dingy rooms that were nestled on the floors above the Leaky Cauldron. Stretching, he climbed out of bed, and went to the window and looked out it. He watched as the shops and the people of Diagon seemed to wake up. Slowly, more and more movement became noticeable and evident. There was a vitality that was evident in Diagon that Harry had not seen in the alley in years. Of course, it had been a few years since he had been allowed in the alley, excepting that time six lives ago, when he snuck into the alley right before his sixth year. That time it had been dead, and deserted and seemed to be rotting from the outside in.

He gave his head a hard shake, as there was a knock on the door. A moment later it opened, and Hagrid entered before speaking. "Come on now, 'Arry. It's time to be getting everything done."

Harry just nodded, and followed Hagrid out of the Cauldron and through a back door into a dingy little courtyard. Muttering, Hagrid taped a few bricks, and there was a trembling pulse of magic.

A thrum, of expectation that twisted inside of him, and Harry could feel as the magic writhed around them. The bricks in the wall shimmered, and started twisting in on themselves. One by one, they folded away, twisting around themselves, and distorting space time.

Twenty-five seconds later, there was a half-arch in the wall. A gaping opening, that showed a peak of the alley.

At forty-five seconds, the arch had fully formed, leaving an ornate entry way that lead from a dingy, courtyard into what appeared to be a business street yanked straight out of an Oliver Twist movie. The smell of unwashed bodies and dirt and other things slammed across them, and Harry gagged for a moment. This was not something that he remembered from any of his lives, but he had never really paid that much attention to this moment before.

"Welcome ta Diagon Alley," Hagrid said with a pride-filled voice.

Harry just nodded, and the giant of a man, pressed a hand against a shoulder and pushed him towards a massive white building.

"Gringott's first, I reckon."

"What's Gringotts?" Harry asked as he remembered that he was supposed to be raised without any knowledge of the wizarding world.

"What's Gringotts? Why its the bank o' course. Why wouldn't yeh know that?"

Harry glared up at the large man. "Raised in a cupboard under the stairs remember? Didn't know my name until I was six. Thought it was freak, until the teachers in primary got onto me for not answering. I mean consider the fact that I, a young boy, all but jumped at the chance to run off with a stranger instead of staying with my relatives. Does that not set off some type of alarm bells for you? You work at a school! This type of action should be scaring you to no end!"

"Naw, naw. That can't be true. Dumbledore said that had to be some type of mis... We just didn't understand things last night. Great man, Dumbledore."

Harry stopped, and stared at him. "Hagrid, I lived in a cupboard. My relatives put me there, and did so quite happily and often. Usually smacking me a few times in the process. I don't care what type of man this Dumbledork is, he wasn't in the cupboard with me."

He gave his head a hard shake, and once again started walking towards Gringotts. He barely paused as he went past the door guard, mumbling a quiet thanks as one of them held the door.

As he got into line for one of the tellers, Hagrid finally caught up to him, a frown on his face as he looked down at Harry.

Harry paused, and glared up at Hagrid. "And how am I supposed to get this money that my parents left me anyways?"

"Oh! I have your key, right here." And with that said, Hagrid started digging in one of the many pockets of his coat, before pulling out a small brass key. He held it up, and let Harry see it for a moment.

Harry held out his hand. "Thank you."

Hagrid paused, holding the key up. "Err.. I'm not supposed te let you have it."

Harry frowned at this. "Is it my key or not?"

"It is."

"Then you'll let me have it."

"But Dumbledo-"

Harry cut him off, his voice loud and carrying. "Again, I don't care what this Dumbledork says. If that is the key to my vault, then I should have it. Not you. Not Dumbledork."

A low, gravely voice responded from somewhere around his shoulder. "The young man is quite correct. If that is his key, then by contract he should have it. The fact that he does not is something that we shall need to look into."

With a startled yelp, Harry spun around to find one of the guards standing there; leaning slightly against his halberd.

Hagrid frowned deeper and shifted slightly. "I dunno..."

Harry frowned as the goblin spoke. "That does not matter. Please return the key, or we will be forced to detain you."

There was another long pause and then the tiny key was dropped into his hand. Harry spun around and advanced in the queue until he reached the teller.

He smiled at the teller and handed over his key. "I'd like a bank statement for all of my vaults for the past ten years, an access list for the same and then I'll need visit my trust vault to make a withdrawal for purchasing school supplies."

The teller nodded his head sharply and then glanced at the far wall. "Griphook! Take Mr. Potter to vault 627."

The teller, jerked a chin towards the other goblin, and then said, "Next!"

Harry advanced, and followed Griphook into and through a dark door. They settled into the small mine carts, and then they were off. The cart twisted and turned, took hairpin corners, and jolted up and down.

Harry was smiling brightly when the cart jerked to a stop. He glanced at Griphook. "That was awesome!"

Griphook just nodded and held out his hand. "Key."

Harry placed the small key into the goblin's hand, and watched as the goblin glared at it for a moment. Then he turned around, and raked a clawed finger down the middle of the wall.

There was a twisting pulse of magic, and the wall shuddered before splitting open. Stone ground loudly in the corridor as the two halves slid away from each other, revealing the interior of the vault.

Harry stepped around the goblin, and grinned at the small mountain of gold.

A few moments later, and a bag of galleons heavier, Harry and Griphook were on their way back up to the lobby of Gringotts. As they arrived, Harry found Hagrid waiting for him. The large man had a distinctly green tinge to his skin and looked quite visibly shaken to be standing there.

Harry followed him out of Gringott's and as soon as he had passed the threshold, he reached into a pocket, and grabbed the three galleons he held there. A switching charm later, and he had in his possession the small paper-wrapped parcel that Hagrid had gotten out of a secure vault.

Hagrid looked down at him for a moment, still wavering slightly on his feet. "While yer getting fitted for yer robes, ya wouldnae mind if'n I snuck off for a pick-me-up would ye? Those carts never do agree wit' me."

Harry smiled at him, and nodded his head. "That's fine Hagrid. I'll either be in the robe shop or in the trunk shop. Alright?"

Hagrid nodded, and Harry turned and looked through the window of Madame Malkin's Robes for Every Occasion. He noticed the young blonde boy that was standing there, getting measured, and his smile turned malicious as he entered.


	12. Redux pt 3

**Shopping for Robes**

* * *

Harry stepped up onto the platform, and gave a quick glance around. At seeing the pinched-face blonde boy standing on the stool next to him, he gave a quick smirk towards him, before speaking.

"Hello, there. Hogwarts?"

The boy gave him a once over in a haughty, superior kind of way. "Of course. Well, Father had considered sending me to Durmstang, but Mother insisted that I simply must attend Hogwarts. You?"

He nodded his head. "Oh yeah. Though I didn't even consider going to Durmstang."

"Why not?"

"Too cold. It's bad enough there's several feet of snow around Hogwarts during the winter. Durmstang is supposedly even further north than that."

The boy frowned for a moment. "And where's your parents?"

"Dead," Harry replied with a flat tone of voice.

"Oh, sorry," the boy replied, glancing around quickly. Then he leaned in closer to Harry. "But, they were, you know, our kind?"

"You mean European?"

"No. Our kind."

"Caucasion?"

"No."

"British?"

The boy all but stomped his foot in frustration. "No, and you're obviously not the right sort either."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Oh, please. What do you know about the right sort?"

The boy straightened up. "I'm a Malfoy. My family's been a wizarding family since before the Conquest."

Harry frowned for a moment. "Oh, I see. So, you're one of... well... _them_."

"Them?!"

Harry quickly nodded. "You know. I'm sure you've seen _them_. Those silly, idiotic wizards who are so foolish, they can't even walk down the street without making a spectacle of themselves. Purebreeds, I think they're called."

Malfoy's face flushed with indignation. "I'm not foolish."

Harry snorted. "I'm not sure I believe you. I think you're one of the Purebreds."

"Well..."

Harry glanced at him again. "Tell you what. How about we sneak through the Leaky Cauldron and then you can prove that you're not one of _them_."

"But, Mother told me-"

"I knew it," Harry interrupted. "You're chicken."

"Am not!"

Harry hopped down from his stool, and glanced around. Then with a jerk of his head, he replied. "Then come prove it."

"Fine," Malfoy snarled, as he stormed through the door.

Harry chuckled to himself, as they darted down the alley and back into the Cauldron. No one paid them any attention, as they purposefully walked through the pub and out into Muggle London. Harry took a deep breath, chocking slightly on the exhaust.

"Now, this is a city."

Malfoy flinched as a car blared its horn. "It's so dirty."

Harry gave a quick shrug of his shoulders, and began walking forward. Under his breath, he muttered, "still smells better than Diagon."

After a few steps, he gave a quick glance behind him. Malfoy was twisting his head to the left and the right, looking around at everything.

"Well come on," Harry said, as he pointed down the street. "There's a clothing store just down the way, and you can prove that you're not one of _them_ there."

Malfoy sniffed and just fell into step beside him.

They had barely gone four steps, when Harry noticed a large lorry heading towards them. He stepped closer to the curb, and then glanced both ways.

Malfoy stepped up next to him.

"Now, don't worry. The ministry has charmed all the cars that travel in front of the Cauldron to avoid crashes, just like the Knight Bus."

Malfoy nodded his head. "I understand."

"So, on three, let's just run across the street."

Again, Malfoy nodded his head.

"1. 2. 3."

Harry stepped off the curb, before he could take another step, Malfoy pushed past him and darted out into traffic.

There was a harsh squeal of brakes from the lorry, but it was much to close to actually stop in time. A squishy thunk sound echoed around the area even as Harry tapped the top of his head, and allowed his magic to do its thing. It flowed down him, hiding him from view.

Laughing to himself, Harry turned away and re-entered the Leaky Cauldron. He was back in side Madame Malkins within a minute, and jumped back up onto his stool

Two minutes later, the clerk returned, and glanced around. "Where's the other boy?"

Harry just shrugged his shoulders. "He said something about wanting a butterbeer, and then ran out the door. I'm not quite certain I understand the reference though."

"Muggleborn?"

He shook his head. "No, just muggle-raised."

The woman nodded sagely, and then gave a rather gaellic shrug. "Oh well. I'll finish up with you then."

Harry smiled at her. "Thanks!"

Harry stopped in front of Ollivander's watching the sign for a moment. Apparently, this family had been making wands for nearly two thousand years. Harry laughed, as he figured that he had over twice that many years of memories due to the repeated cycles of lives that he had been put through. He knew that he had been through 850 cycles, and each cycle had an average span of 5 years gave him just a bit over 4,200 years of life for himself.

Not bad for only being eleven years old, he thought to himself. A chuckle escaped him as he placed his hand on the door and prepared to enter the shop where he would finally get his wand.

As the door parted, reality itself trembled. There was a moment of nothingness that Harry felt more than saw. A reflexive twitch at a level beneath what would normally be considered perception. If he had to describe it, the best that he would have been able to come up with was that the universe had blinked.

He frowned for a moment, and gave his head a quick shake, as he pushed the door the rest of the way open, positive that whatever had caused the universe to blink was nothing of concern to him.

Entering the dusty shop, he shivered as he felt wards twist through and around him: Identification, blood testing and a few others.

Two more steps into the room, and he glanced around, idly noting the dust motes that shimmered in a shaft of sunlight. He blinked, quite certain that the day outside had been somewhat overcast. Or at least cloudy enough that there should not have been any shafts of sunlight.

A whispery, old voice came from behind him. "Welcome, Mr. Potter, I've been expecting you."

Harry yelped, and spun around; his arms flailed.

Then, one of his hands firmly connected with the nose of the old man who had snuck up behind him. Harry savagely suppressed the giggle as Ollivander reeled backwards with the slap.

Instead, he gasped loudly, and covered his face in another attempt to not burst into laughter-that had a side benefit of almost making him look contrite. "Oh, I'm sorry, you startled me. I mean, who would expect a creepy old man to appear behind them... On second thought, should I have a chaperon here? I think I've just about reached my limit of creepy men who appear out of nowhere to talk to me. At least you're not hairy."

The old man rubbed his nose, and seemed to glare for a moment. "Yes, well, no worries on that Mr. Potter. I am Mr. Ollivander, proprietor of this fine shop. For now, let's just get to the process of selecting your wand. I say selecting, but it's really the wand that chooses the wizard. Of course, any wizard can use any wand, but he'll always get the best results out of a properly matched one."

"Wait. I heard once that we should never trust something if you don't know where it stores its brain. So where would a wand store its brain?"

Ollivander gave his head a shake. "Wands do not have brains Mr. Potter."

"Then how can the wand choose the wizard? I mean, you just said they were nothing more than stupid sticks."

Ollivander sighed, and simply ignored Harry as he snapped his fingers.

A tape measure jumped off the counter and began taking measurements. Down the length of an arm. Each of his fingers. The space between his lips and bottom of his nose. Even the space between his eyebrows. It wrapped around his chest, before going from his armpit to his waist. Next was down the length of his right leg.

When it came back to measure his inseam, Harry yelped in outrage.

Then he smacked the measuring tape as hard as he could so that it slammed into the floor, before jumping on it. Repeatedly.

"Mr. Potter! What are you doing!"

Harry glared at the old man. "I knew I should have had a chaperon! That thing was getting grabby! It was measuring me in a private place! Don't you magical people know what Charley has to say about strangers?! Well, they told us in Primary, that's for sure."

Ollivander sighed again. Then handed Harry a wand. "Twelve inches. Oak, with the hair of a quite annoying brownie."

Harry stared at the wand for a moment, and then tucked it behind his ear.

"What are you doing Mr. Potter? Wave it!"

"Oh!" Harry replied, his face a study in innocence. "Well, you just handed me a stick. What was I supposed to think I was to do with it? They told us in Primary to not play with sticks. You could poke someone's eye out, you know."

Ollivander sighed again, while Harry gave the wand a wave. The sound of a wet-fart reverberated around the room.

With the accompanying smell.

"No, I don't think so," Ollivander said with a slight gag.

Harry nodded, and handed back the oak wand. Then he was given another wand.

"Holywood. Ten and three-quarters inches, with dragon heartstring. I found that particular selection of woods on a short trip to Florida."

He gave it a couple of quick shakes. There were no sounds. No lights. No sparkles. Not even any wind. Of either type. He frowned, and while holding the wand in his right, banged against it with his left hand. Then a second time.

And with that, a meter long shaft of energy sprang from the end. His eyes grew huge, and he began swinging it around, making lightsaber sounds.

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry continued swinging.

"Mr. Potter!"

Harry started humming the _Imperial March_.

Mr. Potter! Please!"

Harry swung the the shaft of light, and it bisected the counter. Cutting it cleanly into two pieces. He glanced at the wand for a moment, and the blade disappeared. Harry began bouncing up and down. "Oh this one! I've got to get this one!"

"Mr. Potter, that wand did not choose you."

Harry gave his head a quick shake. "And? Didn't you see that! It turned itself into a lightsaber!"

"No, we must get you a properly matched wand."

"B-but..." Harry gripped the wand to his chest. "I want this one."

Ollivander glanced around the room, obviously looking for some type of help. Then he sighed. Again. "Fine, I'll also sell you that one, but we must still find you a properly matched one."

Harry looked down at his holywood wand lovingly, before looking back at Ollivander. "If you insist. Though I do think that my lightsaber-wand is perfect."

Ollivander just shook his head and picked up another wand. "You know what, I'm not going to play the mystic wand-maker anymore. Here. Holly. Eleven inches, with the tail feather of a rather addled-brained phoenix."

Harry took the wand. A warmth flooded through him. Red and gold flecks of light sparked from the tip, and a wind twisted through the shop.

Ollivander just seemed to wilt slightly. "Very good match. Dumbledore wanted me to give you some spiel about great, and terrible things and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and brother wands. But quite frankly, I don't have the energy. It's seven galleons for the holly wand, and thirty-five for the holywood."

"Why the difference?"

"You're annoying."

Harry thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. And I'll need wand holsters. And a care kit."

Harry stepped out of the wand shop, his shiny new wands stashed into equally shiny new wand holsters, only to find Hagrid standing there across the street from the shop. The large man's hands behind his back, rocking slightly in place in his excitement, much like a six year old. Or a puppy. Harry glanced back and forth for a moment, noting the sheer number of people that were currently shopping.

"'Arry!" The giant man exclaimed as Harry stepped into the middle of the street. "I knows its yer birthday, so's I've gone an gots yer a present."

Harry just stared.

With that said, Hagrid brought his arms around to his front and held out a cage with a large snowy owl in it. Harry leaned forward, staring at the beautiful bird.

"She's beautiful, Hagrid," he said, even as he wondered what would possess someone to buy a young child a live animal as a present, without said young child's guardian knowing about the purchase, let alone permission to do so. It made him wonder how many gift puppies that Hagrid had given out for Christmas that had not made it to Valentine's Day.

"Aye, that she is. An she's all yers."

Harry glanced up and gave him a bright smile. "She's mine?"

Hagrid nodded his head quickly. "Aye. 'Appy Birthday, 'Arry."

Harry took the cage from him, and leaned in closer. "Wow, you are a really beautiful bird of prey... but what to call you..."

"If'n it was me, I'd call her Ceallach."

"War?" Harry questioned, and then shook his head quickly. "Close, but not quite right..."

He glanced around for a moment, and then grinned brightly. "I know! I'll call her Volodimorte."

A passing witch fainted, and there was a sudden breath of wind, as a dozen magicals gasped in unison. Hagrid's complexion turned pasty white. "Whu..."

Harry looked up at him and grinned brightly. "It's Latin. It means 'Flight of Death.' I think that's an awesome name for a bird of prey."

"Well, now, Ah don't think..."

Harry grinned and opened up the cage, allowing the bird to step onto his arm before pulling her free. Then he dropped the cage and began petting her. "And she just loves the name, right, Volodimorte."

"Uh.. 'Arry... It's... You-Know... He.. Not named..."

Harry glanced around, and noticed that everyone within a few feet were staring at him. Those that were in their forties or fifties all had their mouths open wide.

"Who?"

"'Arry, Ah know we've not talked about this... but your parents they were killed by a wizard that went bad. Turned as black as any. You-Know-Who-"

"I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Know who. I mean, if I did, then I guess I could understand you saying 'You-Know-Who,' but I don't. I mean, my relatives raised me in the non-magical world by tossing me into the cupboard every chance they got and leaving me in there as much as possible. I don't really know that many people at all."

"It's...well, we don't say his name."

"Then, how am I supposed to know who?"

Hagrid sighed, and gave his head a quick shake. "Voldemort. Now, don't make me say it again. Anyways, ya can't be namin' yer owl Voldemort."

"No, no, no, no," He replied as he gave a quick shake of his head. "I would never name my owl Voldemort. It's Volodimorte. Voo-de-mor-te. Can't you hear the 'te' at the end. Totally different. And I'm somewhat sickened that you thought I'd name my beautiful bird with French. And bad French at that. I mean, she'd have to be named 'Voldelamort' for it to be grammatically correct. Hmm... If I get a cat, I could call it Zbardemoarte. That's Romanian for 'Flight of Death.' Though, flight's not quite right for a cat... but maybe a hawk?"


	13. Shaman

**A/N:** The could quite easily be the start of a super-powered Harry fic. Either in the comic-book sense, or just the 'over-powered-Harry' sense. Not 100% certain where I'd want to take something like this, but the start just kind of flowed out...

* * *

Harry Potter stared up at the rapidly darkening sky. A harsh coldness gripped him; it squeezed his chest, causing his breath to explode out of his mouth in bursts of white smoke. In the dark recesses of his mind, he heard a woman's screams. Screams, and a voice, which he recognized as his mother's.

He knew that that meant one thing: dementors.

Glancing over, he noticed a look of terror on his cousin's face. Then Dudley glared down at him. "You know you're not supposed to do stuff."

Harry glared at his cousin. "It's not me, but it's not good. Let's get to the house."

As he finished talking, a wind drew up, along with storm clouds. He jumped up off the picnic table he had been sitting on and started running towards the Dursley's house. Behind him he could hear his cousin's labored breathing as he struggled to keep up.

Harry's mind ran through possibilities, and decided to take the shortcut on Wisteria Walk rather than heading all the way over to the closest point where Privet Drive came near the park. That would save at least five minutes on their return trip home. He grabbed his cousin's shoulder and dragged him towards the covered walkway.

"Come on," he yelled. "This way is shorter."

Dudley did not say anything in response, but the heavy breathing did not change behind him.

They entered the covered walkway, and absently Harry noted that it had gotten dark and cloudy enough that the lights in the tunnel had came on.

He rushed into the tunnel, and sighed slightly in relief. Just not being out in the open made the oppressive chill relent at least a little.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed at his shoulder, and twisted him around, and pushed him against the wall. His cousin's enraged face filled his vision.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter? Dad's going to break you for this!"

Harry pushed his cousin backwards. "I'm not doing anything Duds. There are dementors out there, and we need to get to the house now before they try and kiss us. I for one, don't want my soul sucked out today."

Dudley glowered at him for a moment, before pushing him against the wall of the tunnel. Harry's shoulder hit the wall hard, and his wand dropped from his hand, skittering away.

At that moment, the lights in the tunnel flickered out, and a frost raced down the tunnel walls from the opening closest to the Dursley house. Dark shadows filled the far entryway. Harry glanced behind himself, and saw that another dementor was at the other end of the tunnel.

Harry cursed as he dropped to the ground, hunting for his wand. Dudley fell to the ground as well, but instead of looking for Harry's wand, he started crying.

"Lumos," Harry snarled, and his wand tip began shining three feet away.

He scrambled towards it, feeling the chill of the dementors coming ever closer, their vile presence leaching what little warmth and happiness he had from him. It was a coldness which sucked at the marrow of his bones, and made his arms, legs and even his thoughts feel heavy. It pushed at this sense of self and life, stealing them away with every rattling, breath the dementor inhaled.

His hands closed around the his wand, and the lumos spell sputtered out. The tunnel flickered back into darkness, and Dudley moaned in fright.

Harry raised his wand, and screamed out an incantation. He felt his magic flow through him, but nothing happened. He expected a fully formed silver stag to bounce forth from his wand. Instead, there was nothing. Nothing but the coldness and the despair and the total lack of any possibility of happiness. There was not even a sputtering of the incorporeal patronus mist.

Harry closed his eyes, as a vision of a petrified Hermione filled his brain. A horrible knowledge that she was stone, and there was nothing Harry could do for her. That no matter how often he visited her in the hospital wing, she was unmoving and unchanging. Tears leaked out of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut tighter.

Then there was a cracking sound. It was a noise that Harry had never heard before, a noise that defied explanation. It was a noise that he saw as much as felt; one that resonated in his bones and brain and echoed in his ears.

He opened his eyes, and saw something that hung in the air behind the dementors. It appeared as if someone was ripping apart the air. Energy pulsed through the tunnel, and the edges of the tear started to flare in eldritch fire. A second flash of power raced down the tunnel; to Harry it had all the flavor of a patronus, but with none of the emotional overtones.

Harry felt something like an ice storm cross over his chest, and he looked up to see the second dementor floating over him. It passed both him and Dudley without even a glance, and just went towards the rip in the air.

A third pulse of energy, and the rip widened, becoming more of a doorway. Still the energy writhed and hung there, not touching anything; ethereal and solid all at once.

Finally, another pulse whispered down the tunnel, and Harry saw someone stepping out of the portal.

A familiar voice spoke, one that sounded like someone who he had heard, and heard often, but at the same time was nothing like anyone he had ever heard. And with an American accent. "Oh you poor souls, what could have twisted you to be like this?"

Harry could feel a pressure in the air around him. It felt like he was under a dozen of the Hogwarts down comforters. It was heavy and oppressive and warm and protective all at once. It had the taste of hope.

The stranger's left eye glowed brightly as it appeared to leak fire; he reached out and touched the first dementor, and the fire flared even brighter.

The dementor's black and dirty robes fell away.

Before Hogwarts, Harry had seen a video in school about erosion. There was an animation about how water would remove sediment from stone, to reveal things beneath the dirt; there was even a dirt covered, jade statue that they used to show this effect.

That's what the dementor's robes falling away reminded Harry of. It was not so much a physical dropping, as a washing away of dirt and corruption and filth. It was a warming of their very presence; one which Harry could instantly feel in the lessening of that dark chill from the air.

Absently, Harry noticed that the man did the same thing to the second dementor.

Finally, all that stood before the man were two glowing sparks, which had the outlines of a ghost surrounding them. The man stared at the sparks for a moment, and he then laid hands over each of them.

"You have both been on this plane for too long. Your souls hungered for the next adventure, but you had tied yourself here, and were unable to go further. Thus you had become corrupted and lost to the night; you only felt hunger and coldness and became a desecration to life itself in order to feel the warmth and to sate that hunger. But even then, that was only temporary and there was no true warmth to be found. I will help you along to the next beyond, but know that there will be penance awaiting for you; one should never deny the cycle of life."

With those words said, his eye flared; after a second, he appeared to be on fire, as the energies he was pulling up caused his aura to become visible as a giant phoenix. There was another rush of power, and then an implosion of awareness. Something which tugged at his sense of self, yet there was no wind to so much as muse his already messy hair.

The sparks were gone, and the lights were flickering back to life.

This gave Harry the first good glimpse of the person who had saved his cousin and himself. He was about a year or two older than Harry, yet around the same height. His clothes were black pants and a long sleeved button-down shirt that was also black, and unbuttoned. This revealed a well-defined chest, in addition to a tattoo on his right pectoral. It was appeared to be a reverse-image x, but to Harry it had the feel of certain activated runes he had come across during his studies. The stranger had reddish-brown hair, with a chunk of white over his left eye. What amused Harry was that the stranger's hair was a messy as his own. It appeared uncontrolled and uncontrollable.

Harry stood, as the stranger came closer to him; a smile on his lips. Once they were just a few feet apart, Harry began to frown. He could see the stranger's face clearly now, and though the eye color itself was blue, Harry recognized the face as his own from the mirror.

"You... you're me!" he exclaimed, shock pouring through him.

His doppelganger laughed slightly. "I guess that's true, at least from a certain point of view. I'm you from another universe; another set of possibilities. Someone from somewhere a little left-wise on the spiral of worlds. Tell me, what's our parent's name in this universe?"

Harry blinked, and spoke without thinking. "James Potter and Lily Potter nee Evans."

The doppelganger nodded his head slowly, as amusement seemed to twist his lips the slightest bit. "Not even a Grey this time. Anyways, my name is Nate Grey."

"Harry," Harry replied. He was staring at this other him, and could feel his brain trying its best to just shut down and stop working. A tug at his consciousness that actually scared him slightly.

Nate's smile widened a bit. "Well, it's good to meet you then, Harry. Here's a bit of a secret, but I'm the Shaman for my universe's earth as well as the earth of a dozen others up and down the spiral that seem to lack me for some reason."

"Other universes?"

Nate nodded. "Yes, other universes. There is a spiral of universes, twisting around and around and around. There is no start and no end to this spiral. Each node of the spiral is another universe. The ones right next to your universe are all but mirror images. But the further you go left or right, the more differences in the actions of those you know. When you go up or down, then you get where evolution has taken a different course. There may be places where snakes are the predominant life form rather than a form of ape. Or somewhere where viruses never evolved, leading to no sickness and less strife. The point is that across the spiral there could be any possibility waiting out there; any life; and yet, we share a commonality. Though our names are different, we share a genetic heritage. If I had to guess, I'd say that our parents have the same almost-ness which we share."

Harry shook his head. He would have to ask Hermione about some of this. It did not make sense to him. "So, what do you mean about shaman?"

"I deal with the spiritual plane and how it interacts with the physical. Judgment and the soul, and how they interact with a person's health and life and death. I have been a guide and a teacher and an avenging angel all at the same time. I felt something calling me to this plane of the spiral, and could not understand it, but now I think I do. You're on the cusp of emergence. Your powers are about to be released, and if you don't have the framework in place to deal with them..."

Nate's stare shifted beyond Harry, though Harry suspected the older boy was not looking at anything physical, but watching his own memories. "Let's just say that I've seen a few worlds that we've ended up... well destroying is probably the best description."

"Destroying?" Harry asked, surprise making his voice weak.

"Yup," Nate replied, with a popping sound on the p. "Anyways, I'm here to give you a bit of a download, and a framework upon which your powers can rest. Has your first mutation event occurred?"

"Mutation?" Harry asked, the world rolling around in his head, making him feel stupider and slow. He knew the word from his primary school education, but this stranger was using it in an odd context that made it seem alien and unfamiliar. Made it seem like the word 'wizard' the first time Hagrid had said that word to him.

Nate nodded his head. "Yes. The first time your powers exposed themselves? It was probably something you couldn't really control, and in response to emotional stress."

That sounded like accidental magic to Harry so he simply nodded his head.

"Good, then that means I don't have to give you pointers on the basics of energy field manipulations."

Before Harry could say anything, Nate's held up his hand, and his left eye once again flared into fire. Harry's shirt disappeared, and Nate pressed his hand up against Harry's chest. Energy poured through them both, and the phoenix aura reappeared; it twirled around them, purging and purifying, eating away at the blocks that had been placed around his essence; some by his own subconscious, others by those less trustworthy. Energies pulsed through the malnourished routes of power; the arteries of magic, crumpled by the abuse and malnutrition and blocks flared to life. Magic raced through them, filling him, and expanding him in ways he had never experienced before. It felt like the moment that he had first touched a wand; a wash, an explosion, of energy; but this was hundreds, if not thousands, of times more.

Then just as suddenly as the fire appeared, it was gone. Harry dropped to the ground, his nose bleeding slightly, as he groaned. His body ached; every muscle and bone felt battered and bruised. He had a throbbing awareness of his head, a staccato drum beat, that pounded in time with his heart rate.

"Merlin," he muttered. "That gave me a headache and a half."

"I can understand," Nate replied with chuckle. "When I got my totem it felt like someone had taken a bat to my head. Of course, my power was slowly killing me at the time, and it felt like I was being stabbed in the eye every time I moved something."

Harry settled back, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall of the tunnel. He glanced down at his chest and noticed that he now sported a runic tattoo as well. There was a five-pointed star, with the top point, pointing towards his right shoulder. In the center was a phoenix, and on the phoenix appeared the sowilo rune, looking like a much less inflamed version of his scar. Each arm of the star also held a different rune: ansuz, kenaz, perthro, hagalaz and tiwaz. Two circles surrounded the star, and in the space between them those five runes were repeated over and over again.

Vague memories of their meanings tickled at the edge of his awareness. He knew that Hermione had told him in their third year, but he could not fully remember what each of them were. Still, even without the knowledge of what they meant, he could feel them there under his skin; he could feel the magic of them pulsing and flickering, and it reminded him so much of the pulses of energy from the portal from which Nate had appeared.

He gave a slight shake as his shirt suddenly reappeared on him. Looking up, he found Nate to be smiling at him.

"I'm sorry," Nate said softly.

"Why?"

"Because this is going to hurt even more."

Then the eye flared again, and Harry felt like someone was driving spikes into his brain. Nearly unbearable agony raced through his head; a head which felt like it was going to explode from the pressure. His hands found their way to his temples as he screamed out the pain.

Then as suddenly as it appeared, the pain was gone; all that was left was an after ache, the memory of pain in his tensed and trembling muscles. A ghostly reminder that the pain had existed, and that it awaited out there somewhere once again.

His body curled around itself, trying to protect itself from the pain that it knew was still out there; that was waiting for him, waiting to consume and conquer him. Harry coughed out bile and blood onto the pavement of the tunnel, as spots danced in his vision.

He went to speak, and instead coughed out blood twice more. Finally, the fire in his throat died enough where he could actually form words, though his voice was low and gravelly.

"When I'm able to stand, I think I'm going to kill you."

Nate chuckled darkly. "I'm sure you'd like to. But that was the easiest way to give you my knowledge. You'll need it to control your powers when they awaken fully."

"What do you mean?"

"When the memories finish unpacking the next time you're asleep you'll understand."

Harry twisted his neck slightly, feeling the tendons there creak with the movement; a slight lessening of the ghost memory of that pain. He shifted his weight up onto his arms and knees; that memory of pain flickering across his bones.

"Ah," Nate said, a grind on his face and his voice slightly haughty. "I see you're recovering. That's good, but I think it also means that I need to take my leave of you now. Wouldn't want us to come to any... unfortunate blows."

Harry knelt back onto his haunches. A move that prepared him to stand and got his back going up and down again. Unfortunately, it also allowed vertigo to slam into him.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness as he replied. "I don't think I'd call them unfortunate."

Nate chuckled. "Be well, Harry Potter."

Harry opened his eyes as the world around Nate twisted. That dark fire flared into existence behind him, and energy pulsed around him and through him. It tugged at his body, and pulled at his soul. The runic tattoo on his chest burned, a hot flare of awareness.

Nate waved absently, as he stepped backwards into the distortion of what Harry suddenly knew was the fabric of space-time.

As Nate moved fully into the hole, reality itself pulsed again. A throb which made everything in front of him seem to pulse and bulge. It seemed like the air itself was going to buckle under the tidal pressures of the tear.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the rip disappeared. Harry dropped back to his knees as his breath left him in something akin to an explosion. The faint taint of power teased at his senses. It contained the smell of water before rain as well as the taste of pennies; a taste Harry remembered from that one time that Uncle Vernon had taken a power cord that was plugged into a wall to him.

He felt stronger, almost invincible, as well as drained, all at the same time. It was like that ghost memory of the pain, something that he had only felt after the cruciatus curse. He let a sigh escape his lips as he glanced over at his unconscious cousin.

His eyes closed, as he felt the strength finally leaving him; an awareness of thought that was flowing away. He knew that soon, he would be unable to even stand; much less walk the rest of the way to the Dursley's.

The wand once again fell from his fingers, landing against the ground with a clatter. Harry dropped back against the wall. He could feel the welcome arms of oblivion clutching at him, trying to welcome him.

The he heard a voice. One from his childhood, that was filled with an almost panic and anger.

"That foolish idiot. I told Dumbledore that he couldn't trust that Fletcher, and of course he ups and disappears and just in time for dementors!"

Harry struggled to open his eyes, and snatched up his wand, attempting to quickly hide it into his holster so that Mrs. Figg would not see it.

"Harry! you weren't kissed! No, keep it out you silly boy. We don't know if there are more of them around."

Harry glared at her. She was not fitting into his concept of the world. She was an anomaly at the moment; one he lacked the energy to comprehend. So he kept his wand out.

"You're a witch?" He asked in a slurred voice.

She snorted. "No, I'm a squib, so you're the one that will have to protect us. Now, what happened with the dementors? Did they kiss your cousin?"

"No," Harry began as he shook his head; something inside of him told him it would not be a wise idea to tell her that a Harry from an alternate universe had came and turned them into fireflies. "They didn't kiss either of us, and I'm not sure. They just disappeared. Not that I'm complaining or anything."

Mrs. Figg sighed wearily. "Well, let's get you two home then."

Harry still slightly loopy from exhaustion asked, "So, you're taking us to Hogwarts?"

"No you silly thing. I'm taking you to Privet Drive, not your school."

"Oh," Harry muttered darkly. "There."

"Yes, there. That's your home after all."

Harry shook his head. "No, that's never been my home. I mean, I've never been welcome there after all."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt a tremor run through him. There was a release on his chest, like taking off a compression band. He gasped as he stumbled slightly. Everything turned high contrast in his vision for a moment. There was too much color, too much sound, yet not enough of either, all at once. It was a shift in how he saw and felt, and suddenly he felt a rush of magic sizzle across his skin. The sizzle settled into his skin, and he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and a film had been pulled from his mind. He felt lighter and freer and faster and like his thoughts were moving just that much quicker than normal.

He realized that she was saying something in response to his statement; something that had the tone and flavor of an automatic response. The taste of a compulsion. "Nonsense, they're family. Family always loves and welcomes family."

Harry gave her a dark look, and decided to ignore the whole discussion on families. "So, you knew the entire time who and what I was?"

Mrs. Figg nodded as she glanced around. "Yes, yes. Now, let's hurry."

Harry frowned, as he quietly woke his cousin. "Come on Duds, let's get you home." Then in a louder voice, directed at Mrs. Figg, he asked. "So, why didn't you ever tell me?"

Mrs. Figg sighed. "I wanted to, but Dumbledore said that I wasn't allowed. I couldn't even do anything to let you be happy when you visited, because I knew that those awful people would keep you away from me if I did."

"What does Dumbledore have to do with any of this?"

"He's the one that had me come here and watch over you. Didn't he tell you that?"

He shook his head, as he helped Dudley to stand. "No, he's never mentioned you. Or that he knew what was going on."

"Well, I sent him report after report telling him how bad it was over there. I mean, you were always so little, and the only time someone really saw you outside, you were doing the gardening or painting the shed or something of the likes which Dudley never did."

Silence settled around them, as they walked towards the Dursley's house. A frown marred Harry's features as he considered the last thing that Mrs. Figg had said. He had never thought that Dumbledore knew what was happening. He had always assumed that it was some form of automatic enchantment which addressed the letters; that no one had ever known that his first bedroom was the cupboard under the stairs. Even as he thought that, he wondered if McGonagall knew what his home life was like. If Pomfrey had. How many of the teachers and staff were in on it? And why? Was there some other reason besides him being 'safe' which had the staff sending him back here every year.

He continued to walk through the rapidly darkening streets; as he struggled with his cousin over his shoulder, his thoughts were dark and disturbing even to himself. They flashed to an article that had caught his attention in the library earlier in the summer. It was a description of brain-washing techniques and other psychological abuses. Some of the ways to do this was to emotionally and/or physically abuse the person, make them feel beaten down and worthless and then right as they were reaching the breaking point, give them a little acknowledgment or leniency.

In that moment, Harry had a flash of insight.

It was not just a small act of leniency that would help in this situation. Taking him from the higher abusive environment of 4 Privet Drive to the slightly lesser abusive environment of Hogwarts could also be seen as an leniency. Harry would be thankful for being placed in the slightly lesser abusive environment. He would be happy, and see Dumbledore as a savior. The Weasley's. The Magical World as a whole, in fact. Like a puppy that had been kicked too many times, he would happily be smacked across the nose, provided he wasn't being kicked.

Other aspects of the article flashed through his mind, and one of them was the fact how a repeated mantra in this situations would often be "I am doing this for your own good."

How often had Dumbledore said something similar. That this action was for the 'greater good' or something was for Harry's safety. He was letting Harry know that Dumbledore knew best. That he had all the answers, and that those answers were right.

Regardless of what Harry thought, or felt or could even want.

Anger and hate burned through his veins.

Who was Albus Dumbledore to decide what was best? For who was it best for? Being abused and tortured by his relatives was not the best for Harry Potter. It was not for Harry Potter's greater good. There had to be something somewhere else; some other factor that he was not aware of.

That thought set off another tangent in his mind. Something his uncle had said once while discussing an audit of one of the other managers at Grunnings; that he just had to 'follow the money' in order to figure out the reasons and players involved. Harry knew he had money; Ron reminded him of it every chance he got after all. Yet, here he was, stuck in this hellhole that was called Privet Drive wearing his cousins hand-me-downs. Something was wrong with that as well.

With an effort, Harry pushed the rage to the back of his mind, as he kicked the front door to Privet Drive.

In a castle in Scotland, in a high-tower overlooking the Black Lake, there was an office. Inside this office were a number of portraits, a phoenix and a dozen shiny gadgets. Gadgets which whirled and twisted and puffed little balls of smoke.

This was the office of the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Normally, one could find an eccentric old man, one with a fondness for gaudy, outlandish robes, lemon drops, and an interest in ensuring that certain young males remained weak and open to manipulations, inside this particular office. Yet, on this day, said old man was in Paris, actually attending a meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards. This was a rare event, but necessary for the old man, as someone within that august body had recently brought up the thought that the old man was not at enough meetings to be considered the Supreme Mugwump.

Of course, the little fact that this was true, mattered not to the old man. He wanted that office, and the title that went with it.

Unfortunately for the old man, he was unaware that even as he argued that he should be keeping his position as Supreme Mugwump, the current sitting Minister of Magic was at that moment drafting a decree that would remove him as ambassador at large to the ICW.

Though for our purposes, that bit of intelligence was neither here nor there. Our concerns today was that said office was empty; save for the autonomous portraits and a somewhat cranky phoenix.

This could also be considered unfortunate for the old man as he was unavailable to muster any forces to go intervene at Privet Drive when one of the many flashing, squawking, popping and puffing gizmos burped.

The device in question flared slightly, bulging as it attempted to contain information about what it was reading. After all, it had never been designed to handle the energies involved in the sudden collapse of highly illegal and highly dangerous wards that were based upon a misread set of blood-runes.

Thus, as Harry Potter was finished telling a certain Arabella Figg that he had never considered 4 Privet Drive a home, said device transmuted itself. In one of those highly unusual and highly surprising events which seemed to infect the Wizarding World on an almost daily basis, the end result of the transmutation of the device, was that it had turned into a niffler.

A niffler who was quite, ecstatically happy to be in a room filled to the brim with shiny, shimmering, moving doodads. A surprising number of which were metal.


	14. Early Death

**A/N:** I wanted a Harry that was more in tune with logic and the rules of consequences. A Harry that had these ideas about cause and effect, a Harry with a fundamental understanding of that particular natural law. But I also wanted a Harry that knew pain. I'm talking the same way that SW's The Yuuzhan Vong knew pain-not so much a religious experience, but an overriding expectation of pain as the basis of reality. Imagine, a Harry Potter so used to, so inured to, pain that he could basically shrug of a cruciatius. Someone who acted/reacted differently to pain, than any other wizard we see. That's what I was aiming for.

Instead, this is what I ended up with, and I'm not quite certain where this Harry could go...

* * *

He had expected pain.

He was accepting of it. Had known it was to come.

After all, whenever he did anything odd, or strange, or just anything that he was unable to explain, pain was the end result.

The teacher's hair turns blue? Pain.

A step on the stairs disappears one night? Pain.

His hair grows out overnight after being half shaved off? Pain.

There had been hundreds of instances over the years, and each time, the response was pain.

It was a simple maxim. An example of one of the fundamental laws of the universe. Cause and effect. Action and reaction.

Something happened, and then his uncle would hurt him.

And the pain differed every time. Sometimes it was beatings. Sometimes they burned him. Sometimes they would leave him in his cupboard for a week without food.

Pain was something that young Harry Potter knew a lot about. He knew the way it tasted and felt. The way it smelled. The white hot suffering of living with a burn for three weeks to the dull reds of healing bones.

Harry Potter knew pain.

It was almost comfortable and expected.

So, when he had been running away from his obese cousin, and had suddenly found himself on top of the roof of the school, Harry knew that he would be experiencing pain. There was no way around it. No other possibility had presented itself to his mind.

He knew that it would come.

It was a given. A knowledge as deeply held in his mind, as the fact that the next day the sun would rise, or that his cousin would be given anything he whined for.

And of course, when he and his family arrived back home from the student teacher conference where it was discussed how he had managed to find his way to the roof of the school, pain was given to him.

He had been the second to last to enter, with his uncle immediately behind him, and as soon as they were all inside the house, Vernon pushed him harshly towards the steps.

Harry had fell forward with his face slamming hard against the banister.

Slumping onto the steps, the blood had poured out of his nose, staining his lips and shirt.

He turned and looked at his uncle, and shivered slightly.

Vernon stood there, his meaty fists grasping and ungrasping in a clenching motion. A vein throbbed in his forehead, as his skin darkened in his anger.

"You freak! We've told you that we don't want any of your freakish ways happening around here!"

Harry tried to scramble backwards, but he was already pushed tight against the wall.

Before he had said anything in response, Vernon had punched him hard in the chest. Harry had felt something give way under the punch. Had felt the shattering of his too thin bones. Had felt the sharp pain of something being pierced in his chest.

He coughed, and blood came out.

Splattering the stairs the banister and his uncle.

A fact that drew even more ire out of the man.

His uncle jerked back, and let him go. He slid downwards, crumpling into a heap on the edge of the stairs.

Cause and effect.

Coughed blood was the cause, a sharp kick to the stomach was the effect.

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to cry out in pain. He wanted to do so many things.

He had long learned the cause and effect to those though. He had learned those lessons well and thoroughly.

So he suffered the punches and the kicks in silence. He tried to not vomit. He tried to not cough up more blood.

Yet it appeared that the cause of the coughed blood was the punches. A vicious, never-ending cycle; one of pain and misery and suffering and blood and bile.

Quickly, Harry's life had settled into nothing but that hot glow of agony; the cinders of pain and torment that licked at his nerves, and kissed his skin, and twisted at that almost indefinable something that was inside his chest; a something which caused his breath to almost whistle when he was actually able to wheeze one in and then back out.

No part of him had not hurt when his uncle had finally tired of his punishment. No aspect of him was without pain.

Yet, he was oddly disconnected from it. Even being pulled by the hair and thrown into his cupboard lacked the suddenness and vitality which it normally held. It was like eating with a congested nose. You knew it was supposed to taste one way, and you knew you were eating, but the food just lacked a flavor to it. His pain was like that: bland, flavorless, flat.

Harry felt a darkness approaching.

A seeping blankness which ate at even the flat world Harry found himself it. It attacked everything that Harry was. It took away pain. It took away the feeling of the infant's cot beneath him. It took away the texture of his clothes. It took away the smell of the blood and vomit that coated his clothing. It took away the braying horse laugh of his aunt, and the chuffing chuckles of his uncle. It took away the sounds of the news report on the television. It took away the sight of the cupboard; slowly eating away the vision of that door, and its little grate.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the darkness had taken it all.

Everything he felt. Everything he saw. Even the breath from his body.

That blankness darkened everything.

Everything.

And gave nothing back.

Cause and effect. Action and reaction.

Even a child that had been brought up in the sunlight and with enough to eat would have succumbed to such treatment. Even an adult, in the prime of life, would have been hard pressed not to give up and give in. Especially with a distinct lack of medical treatment.

How much worse would it be for a child that was raised in the confines of the cupboard under the stairs? How much worse for a child that had never had enough milk or proteins needed to build strong bones and muscles.

Finally, hours after young Harry Potter had been tossed into his cupboard, the television turned off. Less than a minute later, the door to his cupboard swung open.

Petunia Dursley knelt down, and looked at her nephew.

She took in the lack of blood flow, the lack of a moving chest, and even the dull blank look in the boy's eyes. She knew what that look meant. She recognized it from when she had gone to identify her parents at the morgue. It was not a familiar look, but one that she knew, that she had seen, and that she could instantly identify.

Yet, she did not feel any guilt. Nor sorrow. Nor remorse.

There was just the slight annoyance that now they would have to do something with a body.

She huffed, and glanced towards her husband who was nearing the stairs.

"The freak's dead," she muttered.

The reply was instant. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

Instead of heading up the stairs, Vernon went into the garage and retrieved a roll of heavy plastic. He wrapped the boy up in it, and carried his body out to the car and placed in into the trunk.

Three hours later, he was at a park in one of the suburbs to the north of London. He pulled the boy's body and dropped it onto the ground, right next to a large oak tree with a bench situated beside it.

With a grimace, he kicked the boy once more, and snarled. "Damn freak. Now, I'm missing sleep because of you."

Without another word, he got into the car and drove back to Little Whinging. His intentions was to call the police the first thing in the morning and report that his nephew had ran away during the night.

Hours later, the sun rose. It was that particular brilliant light that can only be found during early summer. A clear, clean light, that made everything seem brighter and better.

Even the cold, dead body of a young boy.

A cold, dead body, that was found by a curious little girl as she took a shortcut through the park on her way to school.

In her hand was a thick book, and her hair was brown, bushy and uncontrolled. Intelligence sparkled in her eyes, but even still, death was a stranger to this girl.

Hermione Granger had never faced death. Had never meet it head on. It was something she had never seen before.

Something that she had not confronted or had to face.

Death was still that unknowable stranger. Something removed from her existence; and like all children it was something that she truly believed she would never have to face or confront or meet.

So, the girl who knew nothing of death merely saw a boy.

One that was roughly her own age, but had been beaten and left alone in the park near her favorite bench underneath her favorite tree.

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him. Wanting to wake him, and make sure he was okay. It was almost an undefinable need to make sure he was alright; to help him. Some part of her was saying that life without this boy would be horrible, and lead to pain, while life with him held the promise of unfounded joys. Some aspect of her felt itself pulled towards him, wanting to merely be with him.

So, she reached out, and her fingers ever so slowly inched towards the boy's face.

She had acted.

Cause and effect.

Action and reaction.

As her hand touched the bloodied face, as her fingers, hesitantly rested right above the boy's right eyebrow, power leapt between them. Something undefinable reached out and grasped them both.

Lightning slashed out of the clear sky, and slammed into them.

Light, pure, clean and bright, as if they were the sun itself, flared into existence. It pulsated in time with her pulse, a throbbing which grew brighter and stronger with each heartbeat.

Energy crackled through her body. A burning, coursing something that twisted around her bones, and pulled at her muscles. The girl could feel it as it raced and writhed through her; as it skittered across her skin. As it flaked away from the ends of the curls in her hair.

A maelstrom of energy and power that was centered where the tips of her fingers rested lightly against the brow of the boy's face.

She shifted, pressing her hand into his cheek, and the power tripled.

She felt compelled by something. Half remembered fairy tales, and the amused promise of parents that magic was all around them, drew her in.

Her lips tingled slightly as they hesitantly pressed against the boys.

His body twitched, and he gulped a breath of air. A wracking, shuddering, pained intake, as if it were the last thing he had done, or would do.

The boy's eyes snapped open.

At first, they were entirely black. An otherworldly darkness that sent fear shivering through her chest. Yet, she did not pull away. The thought never even entered her mind.

His back arched, and a scream rent the morning air.

She could not tell if it was hers or his or someone else entirely. It was just loud and frightened, and filled with unimaginable pain.

She watched as the black leaked out of the boy's eyes, like some type of corrupted tears. It flowed away, and after a second, it dried and then flaked off. Dissipating and disappearing into the energies that swirled around and permeated them.

Brilliant green eyes were staring at her. Eyes that seemed to glow, as if there was a light hiding behind them. Eyes that pulsed with the same feeling and energy that surrounded her, that filled her. Eyes that seemed to promise something that the girl did not understand.

And as suddenly, as the energy had appeared, it was gone.

Cause and effect.

Action and reaction.

The two children dropped to the ground, neither had even realized that they had been standing.

Hermione's hand slipped away, as she rested against the ground. She felt drained, and worn down. Wrung out somehow.

Lifting her head, she saw that the boy was shaking slightly, and a small whimper of pain came from him.

She was hesitant as she reached out and shook his shoulder.

His eyes snapped open again, as he lurched backwards, flinching from her presence.

Her voice was weak, and whispery. "Are you okay?"

He looked around, fear shining bright in his eyes. After a moment, he focused on her, and then nodded his head slowly.

She shrugged her shoulder slightly. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and broken. "You shouldn't be nice to me. If Dudley sees you, he'll try and beat you up."

"Hermione!" came a scream from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder to see her mother running towards her. Fear evident on her face.

And just as her mother reached her, there were several popping noises.

Five new adults were suddenly standing over them. Three were dressed in burgundy robes. One had an old brown duster on. While the final one wore a light blue set of robes.

Her mother yelped in surprise, and spun around to face the newly arrived adults.

"Who... what are you?"

The man in the duster, a middle-aged black man with a shaved head, stepped forward slightly, and held up his hands.

"Have no fear," he stated, his voice a somewhat pleasant baritone. "My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt, and we're with the Ministry of Magic. We just registered a massive spike of magical energy concentrated in this area, and had to come and investigate. Since these two children are here, the assumption will be that it was a outburst of accidental magic."

Hermione frowned at the man's description, and then looked at the boy. His eyes were wide, and flickered from one adult to the next. Never resting, never hesitating.

Her mother scoffed slightly. "Ministry of Magic? There's no such thing."

Shacklebolt rubbed a hand over his head, and smiled at her. "By chance are you related to these two children?"

Hermione's mother nodded. "She's my daughter. I've never seen the boy before."

Shacklebolt slowly nodded his head, and then pulled a stick out of the sleeve of his duster. "Before we discuss things further, I'll need to determine which of the children is the magical one, and our discussions will advance from there."

Before her mother said anything, his wand was moving. Two yellow spells were spat out and then washed over her and the boy. It was an odd feeling. Almost warm, like she had been in the sun for too long, or had put on pajamas that had come straight from the dryer.

She saw a number hanging in the air above her: 1,156.

She glanced at the boy, and saw that he also had a number above him: 2,312.

Finally, she returned her attention to Shacklebolt who was staring at them in open-mouthed shock.

She frowned and then huffed.

Her mother's voice was acerbic. A tone that Hermione knew meant that she wanted answers and was tired of waiting for them. "Well? What do those numbers mean?"

Shacklebolt gave his head a harsh shake. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just most magical children have a score of 150, and most adults top out at 485. The previous highest record was 1000. These two are both an order of magnitude above those norms, and they're still growing."

Hermione felt a flicker of disbelief rush through her. An emotion she recognized, but knew was not hers. It tasted alien.

She twitched, and glanced down at the boy, whose eyes were opened wide.

He slowly shook his head.

"No!" He said, his voice weak, and with an odd tone to it. "There's no such thing as magic. I'm just a freak, and do freaky things. To think it's magic means that I..."

He stopped talking, but in her head, Hermione still heard his voice as it completed the sentence. _I get hurt_.

She gasped, and looked at him. "Who hurts you?"

His skin paled even more, making the forming bruises more evident on his visible skin. "How?"

Images flashed through her mind. Hundreds of images of pain and misery and being forced into a small dark enclosed room.

Her body hitched as she stared at him, horror seemed to flicker through her. "How... how could they do that to you?"

She tore her gaze away from the boy, and looked up at her mother. "Mum, we've got to take Harry away from them. His uncle treated him so horribly."

Her mother and Shacklebolt both frowned at her.

"We can't just take a child, Hermione," her mother replied.

Shacklebolt's eyes flicked towards an odd cut above Harry's left eyebrow, and then his eyes widened in recognition.

"Harry Potter?" He whispered.

The boy jumped, and grabbed onto Hermione's arms. When his flesh touched hers, there was a crackle of energy, and light seemed to seep from between his fingers. "H-how do you know my name?"

Shacklebolt shook his head slightly. "Who did this to you Harry? Why are you here in the park this morning?"

Harry looked around, focusing on Hermione for just a second, and then sighed. "Yesterday... yesterday I was running away from my cousin, who is the school bully, when I suddenly found myself on the roof of the school. The school called my uncle, and he took me home. Once there, I was given my punishment for doing the freaky stuff, and uncle threw me into my cupboard. I felt like the dark was eating me, and then I woke up here with Hermione."

Shacklebolt scrubbed at his bald head for a moment, his brow knitted in thoughts and concern, before he lifted his eyes and looked towards Hermione's mother.

"Would you be comfortable taking him in? At least for a few days while we get this sorted?" He gestured towards where Harry's hand still held onto Hermione's arm. "He seems comfortable with your daughter, and it would be best if he was in the home of... well, he's somewhat famous in the magical world, and he's an orphan. We were told that he was being raised safe and sound and happy with the non-magical sister of his mother. That means, he's unfamiliar with magic, and would probably feel more comfortable in a home like yours that is non-magical."

"Please, mum?" Hermione asked. There was an twitch in her chest at the thought of Harry being taken away from her. Even the thought hurt.

Hermione's mother closed her eyes for a moment before nodding. "I see no reason not to for the next few days at least. Any longer will be a discussion between your father and I."

She looked back towards Shacklebolt. "And I assume you can get us some paperwork or something to make this fostering situation legal?"

He nodded his head. "Yes. How about I go get my boss, Amelia Bones, who is the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as well as a healer that can give both children a once over to make sure that they're healthy?"

Hermione's mother nodded her head once, and then gestured towards a house that faced the park. "That's our house right over there. I'll arrange to take the day off, and will expect you and the others?"

Shacklebolt glanced at his watch. "It's seven now, let's say at nine?"

"Very well, Mr. Shacklebolt. I look forward to a further explanation for everything then, as well."

Shacklebolt smiled at her. "I'll see if I can get the Deputy Headmistress of our largest school to come visit you as well. She's one of the ones who typically speaks to the parents of first generation magicals when they get their acceptance letters to the schools after they turn eleven. She'd probably be better suited to answering any questions you may have regarding that."

Hermione's mother nodded and then shook Shacklebolt's hand. She knelt in front of both children and smiled at them.

Holding both hands out, she waited until both children had slipped a hand into one of hers, and then she stood back up. "Well come on then, let's see about a snack."

A few hours later, there was a sharp knock on the door. Three quick strikes, a staccato of demands and expectations.

Harry flinched from the sound. That was one of the things he knew: visitors were not good.

If he was lucky, they were there merely to talk to Vernon and Petunia. And not have a conversation about something that they thought they had seen Dudley doing.

If they were here because of Dudley's actions, then things would not be good. There was always a reaction for that.

He stilled as he felt a smallish hand come to rest lightly against his arm. He looked down at it. Perfectly shaped fingers, thin and feminine. Energy seemed to flicker across both their skin where they were touching. It crackled and arced and spat and was warm and comforting all at once.

He glanced up and found himself once again looking into those brown eyes.

She smiled at him, and he felt his lips twitch in response.

Everything still felt dull and achy and so disconnected for him. As if there was some part or piece or weight missing from him.

Adult voices could be heard in the hallway. Stern, and terse. Harry recognized two of them. One was the black man from earlier, and the other was Hermione's mother.

He could hear three other distinct voices, both of them women. That calmed him somewhat. Women guests tended to be less painful then men guests. There was less demands, and less chance of them making bad or unexpected comments.

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione whispered to him. "You're safe here. I'll protect you."

Then something happened. Something he had never experienced before.

Hermione hugged him. Her arms snacked around him, and gripped him tightly. He tensed for a moment, and then leaned into the hug.

Then to his surprise, she kissed his cheek quickly, and turned back to her book.

He watched her. Unable to discern just what made her tick. What things drove her to do what she did. Why she would worry about such things as him. He was just a freak after all.

Her head snapped towards him, a scowl slightly on her face.

"You're not a freak. I think you're a perfectly normal, and lovely boy."

Her voice was steady and strong and demanding to be obeyed. There was an expectation there; one of obedience. As if she knew the right thing to do or say, and that which she spoke should be taken for truth. As if the mere act of her speaking such a thing made it reality.

He blinked at her twice. His thoughts were sluggish and muddled and confused. He did not understand her.

Then she smiled at him.

His stomach shifted slightly with that smile. Warmth and happiness flooded through him, with that same alien-ness from earlier. It was an other. Something that was part of him, but at the same time it was not him or his.

Mrs. Granger entered the living room, and smiled at them. It was a tense smile. Pained. Something about it, sent Harry's pulse racing and made his skin crawl and quiver. Nothing good had every come from an adult smiling like that at him.

"Hermione, Harry? These are Officer Shacklebolt, Madame Bones, Healer Enforth, and Professor McGonnagall. They're here to talk about what happened this morning."

Hermione stood quickly and dropped into a perfect curtsy.

Harry twitched at Hermione's sudden movement, and looked around the room, wondering if there was a place that he could hide and disappear. He felt the urge to escape, to find somewhere to hide and cower and disappear into. There were too many adults, and they were all staring at him. Watching his scar as if they had never seen one before.

Hermione dropped back into the seat, and once again wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Again, he tensed at the sudden contact. A flair of disquiet in the expectation of pain.

His mind wavered. Hugs broke the things. They broke him somehow. There had always been a cause and effect. A reaction to each and every action. There were rules in his life. Things that he knew for a fact. He knew that if he was touched, pain would follow. He knew that if he did better than Dudley in school, that pain would follow. So many hundreds of little things. Cause. Effect. Action. Reaction.

But here, here it was different.

With _Hermione_ it was different.

She could touch him, and he wouldn't hurt. Her touch and hands were comforting. Something he had never before felt. This was a new effect. This was a new reaction, and he was not quite sure how to respond. He did not know the cause. And he did not know how he should react.

His body shudder, as he felt her breath, warm against his ear.

"You're safe here, Harry," she whispered into his ear. "I won't let them hurt you."

He nodded his head once, quickly, even as his breathing evened out, and slowed.

Harry exhaled slowly, and finally looked up to find the adults watching them. They all had odd smiles on their faces. Another expression that Harry was unfamiliar with.

Hermione settled into the couch and removed her arm from his shoulders. Before the coldness could seep back in, she reached down and grabbed his hand. Again, there was the flare of energy as it flickered through fingers where her hand touch his.

The Professor cleared her throat. "My name is Minerva McGonnagall, and I'm the professor for Transfiguration at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Typically, witches and wizards raised in the non-magical world are informed in their eleventh summer about magic and invited to either Hogwarts or one of the other, smaller schools."

And with that, she began a twenty minute presentation on the school and an overview of life in the magical world.

She finished by handing both Hermione and Harry pamphlets that supposedly answered common questions from muggle-borns.

"Does anyone have any questions?"

Harry tensed and shook his head quickly.

He knew the reaction for asking questions.

Questions were never a good thing.

Hermione squeezed his hand. "Just because those vile people didn't let you ask questions, doesn't mean anything. They are evil."

His head snapped towards here, and his mouth dropped open slightly. "How... how did you know what I was thinking?"

She blinked at him. Surprise on her face, as she shifted her attention away from him to the adults. She noticed them staring at her and Harry and shifted her attention back to him. "I thought you were talking out loud."

There was gasp and then a thud, and the two children turned to see the healer unconscious on the floor.

Harry sighed. Apparently, he really was a freak.

"No!", Hermione hissed at him. "You are not a freak!"


	15. Redux pt 4

**The Hogwarts Express**

* * *

Vernon pulled up to the curb, and pointed towards the train station even as the trunk popped open. "Well, there you go Freak. Get off to school with you. You'll not be welcomed back for Christmas. Also, see, if you can't stay somewhere all of next summer as well."

Harry nodded, but did not say anything. He was still somewhat upset that they had managed to make it off the tiny island before starving to death. That said, Petunia had made sure that he had had enough to eat for the past few weeks. Maybe a bit of forced starvation had given her a sense of decency, but he rather doubted that. Most likely, they were scarred the wizards would come back.

He climbed out of the car, and pulled his luggage from the trunk. A quick glance revealed that it still had Dudley's name and address. Harry grinned as he started making his way into the train station, and ignored it as his relatives tore out of the parking as fast as they could. He gave the steamer trunk he was pulling another quick glance. This piece of luggage was entirely for show, as his real trunk was shrunk and stashed in a pocket. Instead, he had a number of standard school uniforms for Smeltings, a few textbooks, and roughly seven pounds of various drugs that were quite illegal to possess in the muggle world, but readily available for sale in the magical.

He dropped the trunk off beneath a set of benches around platform three, and then hurried on. Heading deeper into King's Cross towards platform seven. In typical Wizarding fashion, they had placed the entrance to a platform named Nine and Three-Quarters smack in the middle of platform seven.

He continued forward, quite happily oblivious to all around him, when he saw her. His first thought was that he did not remember her hair being quite that bushy.

Blinking twice, Harry realized that her hair appeared to be growing bushier by the moment as she, and who he guessed to be her parents, strained their necks to see what they could see. They were one of the few on the platform that had a full steamer trunk (similar to the one he left behind on platform 3), and she was holding a thick, leather-bound book, with the Hogwart's crest embossed onto its cover. Harry bounded up towards her and stopped right next to her.

"Hi, you look lost."

She squeaked slightly even as she jumped. And to his amusement, her hair got even bushier.

Her mother was quicker on the uptake. "Not really, just waiting for the train."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I thought you were hunting for the platform nine and three-quarters and having a spot of trouble finding it. My mistake."

Then he spun about and began walking away.

"Wait!"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder at them. More specifically, at Hermione who had spoken. "Do you know how to get on the platform?"

He nodded and pointed towards a post that looked much like all the rest of them. "Sad to say, you have to walk through the post right there. Best do it at a run, and try not think about it too much. It's also charmed to not allow non-magicals to pass through it, so you'll have to say your good byes out here."

Harry stepped away as the family began their good byes. Then he heard a screeching voice echoing in the distance, but could really only catch the end of her rant. The speaker was a dumpy-looking housewife with bright red hair. A gaggle of equally red-haired children swarmed around her.

"-Packed with Muggles of course. Now, who remembers the platform?"

The smallest red-head, and only girl in the group, piped up. "I do! It's Nine and three-quarters."

Harry just grimaced. Then he ran at the post full tilt. Absently, he heard a gasp from behind, but his primary focus was getting through the barrier and onto the needed platform. Before he was spotted by the group of redheads.

Fully expected to break his nose much like he had done, or would do, at the start of his second year, he slammed into the post. While it was the the uncomfortable stop that had happened that one time, it also was not like walking through nothing. Rather passing through the portal was like attempting to walk through a pool-filled with gelatin desert. There was even a hint of lime tingling his taste buds, to just make things better; especially considering his intense dislike of all things lime-flavored. The sludge seemed to grip at him, and clung to him even as he continued to push his way through.

Finally, with a burping sound, he emerged from the other side and onto the platform. Coming face-to-face with the Hogwart's Express.

This was a steam locomotive, the likes of which had not been seen on British rails for at least thirty years. The engine's steam tank was a long clyinder, painted black at the end, with the rest an eye-watering crimson. A tender and five coach cars stretched behind the engine, with each the same breath-taking crimson red as the engine. The side of the tender was emblazoned with the name of the train, the Hogwart's crest, and there was a plaque with the numbers 5972 on the end.

Harry gave his head a quick shake, wondering how anyone could hide a giant, red steam train.

Sighing, he jumped onto one of the coach cars and began looking for an empty cabin. After a few minutes, he found one, and dropped into his seat.

It was not even five minute later when the door to his cabin opened. Expecting Ron, he slowly lifted his head. And instead was confronted with Hermione who appeared to be somewhat frightened.

She watched him for a second, before asking, "May I sit with you?"

Harry grinned and jumped up. He grabbed her incredibly heavy trunk and hefted it into the storage rack above them. Then he dropped back into his seat, and gestured to the seat next to his. "I'd be quite grateful for the company."

She blushed, and glanced out the window, before settling into the seat across from him. She clutched her book against her chest just a bit tighter.

Not ten minutes later the train was off. Silence stretched between them, until after about ten miles, she seemed to have had enough of it.

"I... I'm Hermione Granger."

"And I'm Harry Potter"

Her head snapped to him, and she blinked twice more. "Your... you're in books. I read all about you in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, as well as _Twentieth Century Evil_."

He shrugged. "Don't believe any of it. Just a bunch of folks, only too eager to make money off their imagination, and dreaming up excuses on what happened that night."

"But..." she began, a frown crossing her face. "It's books! Non-fiction books."

"Just because they're non-fiction doesn't mean that they're not filled with lies."

Her lips pursed slightly, and she glanced out the window for another few miles. Harry just happily sat in the quiet. Finally, it seemed to get to her. "So, have you read your school books? I've read all of mine, and hope that I'm not dreadfully behind."

Harry nodded his head. "I've not read them all, I've only known I was a wizard for a few weeks, and so I focused on a few books on etiquette and just some guides for muggleborns."

She nodded. "What house do you think you'll be in? I'm hoping for Gryffindor."

Harry blinked, and frowned for a moment. "Why?"

Hermione blushed slightly, and looked out the window again. "Because, it was Dumbledore's house."

He scowled for a moment. "And? He's like 150 or something. It's kind of odd for an 11 year old to have a crush on someone that's quite literaly an order of magnitude older than she is."

"I don't have a crush!"

"Oh," he replied, while scratching the back of his head. "Sorry about that. So, why would it being Dumbledore's house make a difference?"

"I..." she heaved a heavy sigh. "I want to be braver. I've always been so scared of everything. Never wanting to put myself out there and make friends. I've... I've always hid behind my books."

He watched her for a moment. "Bravery's not not being scared you know."

She gave this sort of short, sharp bitter, laugh. "That's what everyone says."

"Well, I'm sure you'll get into the house that's best for you."

She blushed again, and glanced out the window for a moment, before looking at him again. "You never answered about you?"

"Hmm?"

"Which house?"

"Oh, well, I.. I think I might try for whichever one you're in."

"Why?"

He smiled. "Because you're my first friend, and I think I'd like to stay near you."

She was out of the seat, and giving him a hug so fast that if she had been just slightly older, he would have assumed she was apparating. "Oh, and you're my first friend as well."

Laughing slightly, he returned the hug.

After a minute, she realized that she was all but sitting in his lap, and then she squeaked, and bolted back to a seat for herself. But this one was the one right next to his, rather than across from him. Once she was settled, she started straightening the skirt of her school uniform.

There was a knock on the door, and an elderly woman stuck her head in. "Anything off the cart, dearies?"

Harry stood, and walked forward. "Got any Mars bars?"

"What's that?" The lady asked. "Are they something new?"

"They're a candy bar, made of nougat and caramel, covered in milk chocolate. They were created in 1932 by Forrest Mars, and first made in Slough, Berkeshire."

Both Harry and the cart lady blinked at Hermione for a moment.

"Well, I'm sorry dearies, but we don't carry this Mars bar."

Harry frowned. "Well, I guess I'll take a bit of everything then. I mean, since you don't have any normal candy, I'll have to figure out what is good from this other stuff."

The lady grabbed a bag and started dropping bags and boxes of different things into it. Then she held it out. "I've put two of everything we sell into here. That'll be 1,4 and 2."

* * *

A few more miles down the track, and the door to the train opened again. Harry looked up from the book he had been reading, and glanced towards it.

This time it was Ron.

The other boy glanced around the cabin, and seemed to focus on Harry for a moment, before sighing in what appeared to be relief.

"Hi there, would either of you mind if I joined you? I was sitting with my older brothers, but one of their friends popped in with a spider."

With that said, he gave another quick shiver.

Harry frowned for a moment, and then glanced at Hermione who was curled into the seat next to him. One of his books (this one an etiquette guide for muggleborns) was opened on her lap, and she had a bag of sugar quills next to her. There was a subtle shrug of her shoulders, that he took to mean that she did not care.

He nodded, and gestured towards the bench across from them. "Sure, that's not a problem."

He returned his focus to book he had been reading. It was one of Hermione's. Amusingly enough, _The Magic Finger _by Roald Dahl.

The boy settled and then glanced out the window for a moment, before looking at them. "I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."

Harry nodded his head again while briefly looking up from his book. "I'm Harry Potter, and this is Hermione Granger."

Ron leaned forward, his eyes appeared to be sparkling with excitement. "Really? The Harry Potter?"

"Well, I'm a Harry Potter."

"So, do you have it?"

Harry blinked, and then looked up from his book, focusing hard on the boy across from him. "Do I have what? What exactly are you asking for?"

"You know, **_it_**!" Ron replied, all but bouncing in his seat, and leaning forward slightly. His eyes were glittering with something. "The scar? Can I see it?"

He blinked, and then looked down at Hermione for a moment. Hermione shrank slightly as if she had felt his gaze fall on her.

Snorting, he poked her in the side. "You were just fascinated to be meeting someone you read about. Not, asking to see the scar that was left the night that my parents were brutally murdered."

She twitched away from his finger and frowned at him. "Don't poke me!"

Harry barked a short laugh, before one again focusing on Ron. "Yes Ron. I have the scar. Thanks for bringing up my parents brutal murder. No, you can't see it."

Ron frowned for a moment. "But you're the Boy-Who-Lived! You're supposed to show it to everyone you meet!"

"God, you're such a marvolo."

Silence fell over the cabin. Ron was staring at him, with an utterly confused look on his face.

Then he realized that Hermione was also staring at him. With a very similar expression.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged slightly. "It's a multi-purpose word. It means idiot or fool, when applied to a human like that. Or, when applied to a situation, it means a kind of fabulously stupid situation. I'm sure you've heard adults use the word marvelous in a sarcastic tone?"

She nodded.

"Well, just like that. But without the need for the tone of sarcasm."

She sighed, and then patted his leg. "Were you in the special classes in primary?"

He barked a laugh, and then noticed that Ron was still staring at him. His mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to figure out something to say.

After a moment, he turned away and looked out the window. Harry shrugged his shoulder and turned back to the book he had been reading. He wondered if he could duplicate the power of the magic finger. After all, it was just a wandless, wordless, touch-based transfiguration.

Finally, Ron's brain seemed to have reset, and he turned back to them, pulling a rat from a pocket.

Hermione squeaked and pushed further into the seat and closer to him.

Harry blinked his eyes. "You... you keep a rat in your pocket?"

Ron looked up, and shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's not that great, but he's been in the family forever. He was Percy's, my older brother, pet but Percy make prefect this year and my parents bought him an owl."

Harry grinned. "So, that means you don't like him?"

Ron shrugged again. "Not really. It's just a stupid rat. All he does is kind of lay there."

"Well, I was hoping for a test subject that I could try out some animate-to-inanimate transfigurations that I had read about on. I'd buy him from you for 5 sickles?"

Ron blinked and then quickly nodded. "Sure!"

Harry stood up, and pulled out a round plastic ball. A quick twist of the lid, and he held it out towards Ron. "Just put him in here. It's spelled to return to my trunk after so long, and can't be broken, and can only be open by me. That way I'll always know where he's at."

Ron dropped the rat into the ball.

Harry pulled out a money bag and withdrew five sickles, and then passed them over to Ron.

He put away the money bag and then held up the ball, smiling at the rat that was inside it. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Ron."

"Yeah," Ron replied as he stood up. "I'm going to go find the snack trolley."

Then he was gone, and Harry spun the ball around and tossed it into the air. "Oh yes, we will have ever so much fun! I finally have my own rat to experiment on!"

Hermione shivered slightly. "At least it's in a ball, and can't get near me now."

He dropped the ball onto the ground, with a rather hefty spin. He watched as the rat was tossed against the side of the ball and held there due to centrifugal forces. Then he focused on her, and gave her a quick grin. "I'd have protected you."

She just snorted. "It's a rat. Not too worried about it, but rather the diseases it could be carrying."

There was a flash, and the ball was no longer on the ground. He wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her into a hug. "Well, the rat is gone now."

She nodded her head.

As she was settling herself back into her seat with the book and the bag of sugar quills, Harry pulled out a package of chocolate frogs. He was frowning as he read the package, and it was at that moment that Ron returned to the cabin. He dropped into the seat across from them, poking into his own bag of sweets.

Glancing up, he seemed to notice what Harry was looking at. "Those are good."

Harry's eyes flickered towards the other boy for a moment. "They're not real frogs are they?"

Ron's laugh was loud and harsh. "No, just charmed for a good jump or two. But it's really the card inside that's important. I'm just missing Agrippa and Bollivestivus."

Harry opened the package, and the chocolate bounced up, and slammed against the window. Another hop and it was out of it. Harry blinked as he watched his escaping candy, before shaking his head. "I think I prefer my candy to stay still."

Then he pulled out the small card that was also in the package. Unlike regular baseball cards, this one was a pentagon. The front featured the sepia-toned image of an old wizard with a beard that dropped off the bottom edge of the card. The name 'Albus Dumbledore' was written in a small nameplate at the bottom of the photograph. Harry flipped it over and read the back:

_**ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
**CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS_

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten-pin bowling._

He flipped the card back over. He watched it for a moment, and twisted the card slightly.

"Ah, that's the Dumbledore card. I've got twelve of him."

A slight hmm sound and Harry pulled on the edges of the card, pushing with his magic to enlarge it until it was roughly the size of a dinner plate.

"Perfect," he muttered as he stood up and stuck the card on the far wall. Then he went back to his seat and pulled out a set of darts.

A quick flick of the hand and the first one landed dead on the nose of Dumbledore's picture. The image was panicking slightly, as it struggled with the large needle that was currently jutting out of the center of its face.

Ron was staring at the image. "But... but that's Dumbledore!"

Harry looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head slowly. "You really are marvolo aren't you? That's not Dumbledorf, that's a picture. And I needed to practice my darts skills."

"Why?" Hermione asked. He glanced at her, and noticed an odd look on her face. Something almost scandalized, as if she could not believe he'd disrespect an image of their soon-to-be-Headmaster by using it as a dartboard.

He shrugged. "There's a pub in Little Whinging where I grew up that has a dart competition every summer. You have to be 13 to enter, but the prize is 150 pounds for the under 16 age group. I expect to win once I'm old enough to enter."

Hermione looked between him and the image, and after a moment shrugged her shoulders and returned her attention to the book she was reading.

Harry threw another dart.

"Stop that!" Ron bellowed. "You can't do that to Dumbledore! He's the Leader of the Light!"

In response, Harry barked another laugh, and threw another dart.

Ron bounced out of his seat and grabbed the darts out of the picture. As soon as he did so, the image rushed from the frame. Harry frowned as he glared at the now empty frog card.

"Well, now what am I going to practice on? He best come back-I mean it's not much of a collectible if the main point of the card disappears for too long."

He plucked the image and turned it sideways shaking it slightly. He gave another harsh jab, much akin to how one treats an almost empty ketchup bottle. Ron began sputtering, and Harry ignored it. Another jab, and feet appeared from the edge of the picture frame.

"There you are."

He gave a final jab, and the image of Dumbledore reappeared in the picture-as a crumpled ball of person and robes. Slowly, the image straightened itself, and glared out of the picture, even as it dusted itself off.

Harry smirked.

"At least now I know that I can get him back in the frame for more target practice."

After he said that, a bell sounded throughout the train; a sound which caused Hermione to lift her head from her book, and look out the window. She watched the scenery pass. "Well, we should get our school uniforms on."

Harry followed her gaze out at the countryside, and then sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Bloody dresses."

"Language, Harry!"


	16. More Mish-Mash

**AN-**Again, a few odds an ends, none of which are long enough to be up here by their lonesome...

.. . .

... . .

.. ..

**The Locket **

_**AN**: From Blot's list #498_

* * *

Five year old Harry Potter trudged up the front steps, and gently, almost hesitantly, knocked on the front door of Miss Figg's house. He glanced behind him, and saw that his family had already driven away, heading off to their five days out on Brighton.

Five days in which he would be here, forced to listen to this lady go on and on about the cats that she had.

Miss Figg opened the door, and glanced around. "Oh, Harry dear, where is your aunt?"

Harry smiled slightly. "They've already gone, Miss Figg."

Miss Figg nodded slightly, and then gestured him to come on into the house. Silently, he trudged on into the building, and went to the spare room that he used as a bedroom when he stayed with Miss Figg. At times, he wished that he could always live there. It was a much better room than the Cupboard Under the Stair, but then he would constantly have to listen to the stories about cats.

He sighed, and dropped his small bag onto the foot of the bed, and then jumped up on it, and laid down.

A few moments later, Miss Figg was calling out to him. "Come on down dear, it's time for tea."

With another sigh, he leveraged himself up off the bed and headed down. Hoping that at the least that the cookies would not be stale this time.

The next day he woke at his usual time of a quarter to five. This was the time that his aunt demanded he awake every day in order to prepare the proper breakfast for Vernon and Dudley.

Full English fry ups for them.

Stale bread for him.

Then he blinked as he remembered that he was not at his aunt or uncles, but rather he was at Miss Figg's house. He glanced around the room, and saw a door off to the side. He expected a closet to be behind it. Getting down, he wandered that way, and discovered that he was quite correct. It was in fact a closet.

Within it though was a trunk.

Normally, he would have never opened it. Curiosity was heavily frowned upon in the Dursley household. It was a given that he should never ever question anything or attempt to figure anything out.

Doing so, meant additional punishments, and extra long stays in the Cupboard Under the Stair without food.

But, he rationalized to himself. He was not at the Dursley.

So, with that thought in mind, he opened up the trunk and found a bunch of odd junk.

There was a mirror that was cloudy. There was something that looked like a top that had a dull, light flashing in it. There was a bunch of old clothes, and a few feathers.

But at the bottom, he found a small locket. He picked it up, and held it in his hands and into the light. It appeared silver in color, and had odd swirls drawn on the outside. He opened it up, and found a painting of a young woman on the inside. She had blue eyes, pale skin and pale, silvery-blonde hair.

Then to his surprise, she stretched and yawned.

Harry yelped, and then dropped the locket and scrambled further back into the closet.

"Why," came a girl's voice from nowhere. "That was somewhat uncalled for, don't you think?"

Harry glanced around, trying to find out who had spoken. "Wh...who's there?"

"It's just I,"

Frowning, but now noticing that the voice had come from the locket, Harry inched closer, and then peered down into the locket so he could once again see its face. "Y... you're... you're in the painting."

To his surprise, the person in the locket smiled at him. "Well of course I am. Sadly, I don't seem to have any other frames to go to, so that means I have to hang out and about here in this one all the time."

Harry shook his head. "Who are you?"

The woman smiled kindly at him. "My name is Zelenah Lovegood, and just who are you?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

The woman tilted her head slightly, before smiling at him. "At, good day young Mr. Potter. I had a dream about you. It's why I had this painting made, on the off chance it would make its way to you one day."

He blinked as he looked down at the necklace. "For me? You mean you're mine?"

Zelenah nodded her head. "Of course. I made this painting in order to help the great-grandson of my good friend Claudius. So, how much magic have you learned?"

Harry cringed and looked around quickly. "There's no such thing as magic. To say anything else means Uncle Vernon gets mad."

"Oh, pish and posh," came the immediate response. "Magic is as real as you or I. Or do you think that every painting can speak with you."

Harry frowned as he considered that. Slowly, he shook his head. "No..."

"Great! We're going to have so much fun learning everything you need to know, but first we need to hide me."

"Hide you? How?"

"Magic of course!" Was the immediate response. Harry looked back into the locket, and noticed that her smile was bright, and infectious. She gestured towards the trunk. "There should be a small silver knife somewhere in that box. Find it."

Harry nodded and began rummaging through the box. He pushed aside bottles filled with all sorts of things until he found the knife in question. Grabbing it, he dropped back to the floor beside Zelenah's locket.

"Found it."

"Next, I want you to gently poke the tip of the knife into your thumb just until you get a bit of blood. Then rub that blood on the outside of the locket. Once the blood is on it, put the locket on around your neck."

"You want me to cut myself?"

"Just a tiny prick is all that's needed. As soon as that's over, you'll never have to worry about someone taking me away from you. "

Harry frowned for a moment. "You'll always be mine?"

Her head bobbed quickly as she nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Coming to a decision, he slowly pushed the tip of the knife into his thumb until a bit of blood began welling up around the blade. He quickly dropped the knife and then rubbed his thumb on the outside of the locket.

It instantly began to glow a bright silver.

"Now, put me on," the locket ordered.

Without hesitation, Harry dropped the necklace around his neck. He felt something deep in his stomach; a feeling almost like what he had felt that time that Aunt Petunia had made him eat moldy bread.

He clenched a hand around his stomach and doubled over, as that feeling got worse.

Then it disappeared.

He blinked as he looked around. "Zelenah?"

Her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "I'm here."

Lifting the locket, he noticed that even though it should be upside down, the painting appeared to be the correct orientation as he looked down into it. "So, you'll always be my friend from now on?"

The woman smiled at him. "Always and forever."

* * *

**The Doe Patronus...**

**AN: **_I realized that nowhere in the books is Lily ever associated with a deer EXCEPT in two ways. The first is the fact that she married a deer animagus, and the second is the implication that Snape loved her because his patronus was a female deer. While Pottermore indicates that Lily's patronus was also a deer, that's not directly said in the books. More importantly, HARRY DOES NOT KNOW THAT. We know that Tonks' patronus turned into a she-wolf when she admitted to herself as to loving Remus. Why then would Snape have a female deer if he was in love with Lily, who presumably had a female deer due to her being in love with a deer animagus?_

* * *

Harry watched the memories of Snape's childhood. The abusive father. Being mean and hateful towards Harry's Aunt Petunia. The rather odd obsession with Harry's mother. The Hogwarts years and all the interactions with Harry's father and godfather.

Hundreds of little snippets of memories. Each told from Snape's point of view, painting him the victim or the martyr. Each an attempt to show off Snape's own bullying and hatefulness as something good and just.

Then there was the final scene. A harsh discussion between Dumbledore and Snape.

Where Dumbledore was actually questioning Snape's loyalty and drive and desire to help stop Voldemort.

In response to Dumbledore's why, Snape conjured his patronus.

A shining, regal example of an animal. Large, proud. A white doe. The patroni glow, shimmered around her, whispy light and smoke and magic.

The doe bounded around the office once, before fading into nothingness.

Dumbledore looked at Snape. "Even still after all this time?"

Snape was watching the spot where the patronus had disappeared. "Always."

The world whirled around Harry and deposited him onto the floor of the Headmaster's office. The penseive rested on the desk, shining subtly with its pool of memories. A shine that had taken a sickening tinge from Harry's point of view.

He attempted to stand, and the world wavered around him as he attempted to adjust to what he had learned.

Instead, he wavered and once more fell to his hands and knees. Pain struggled against his stomach, and he did the only thing that made sense at the time.

Harry vomited.

Scrambling backwards, he pushed his back up against a wall, and shivered.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said an ethereal voice, as a cool hand pressed itself against his forehead. "You seem to be suffering from the bite of a springing tettlbump."

Harry blinked and looked up at her, and then gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "No, just learned some rather disturbing things."

Luna nodded her head. "Ah. So, it was a whistling buttertrumpet."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, it was that."

"Would you like to share?"

Harry glanced out a nearby window, seeing the darkness that coated it. A darkness that he felt leeching at his soul. "Snape. His patronus..."

Luna sat down next to him, and leaned slightly against his shoulder.

"I know an auror, her patronus changed to a wolf after she married a werewolf. So, I know it can change. That who you love can make it different."

"That is true, Harry Potter. The shape of our patronus is tightly aligned to our feelings."

"Snape's was a doe. A female deer. I mean, mine's a stag because of my father... His animagus form was a stag after all. What does that say about Snape though? Is that why he hated me? Because he was in love with my father? That he wanted my father to have sex with him? And how does it play with his overt obsessiveness with my mother in his earliest years? Was he jealous of her looks or hair? Or because of how close she was to my father?"

Luna shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe there's something we're missing."

Harry gave his head a quick shake. "Nothing that I know about. There is nothing that I've been told about my mother that connects her with a deer, except that she was married to a stag animagus."

Luna just hummed softly in reply.

Scrubbing his hair, he stared out the window for another moment. He shifted his attention back towards Luna, his eyes flashing with emotion.

"And Dumbledore knew all this. In fact, that's the reason that the old man trusted Snape! Because, he knew what Snape's patronus was, he _knew_ that Snape had the hots for my father. He let Snape torture and not teach a generation of students; he let him cripple an entire generation of potion students, and all because the greasy-git was obsessed with my family."

Silence settled over them. One minute. Two.

Finally, Harry stood and dusted off his pants. He once more glanced out the window and into the darkness beyond. He sighed heavily. "Well, I must go out there and face my destiny now. This must end."

"Ends are not bad things. They just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don't really end, anyways. They just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren't really an ending; somethings are never-ending."

He blinked, and frowned at that. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean they don't hurt sometimes."

"I have faith in you, Harry Potter." With that said, Luna leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. She then grasped his face in her hands. "As you go out to face him, remember those of us who love you. I know that Hermione loves you. I know that I love you. And also remember those whom you love."

And then there was another quick kiss. Luna blushed slightly, and dropped her hands as she stepped away from him.

He could not help but smile. "I... Thank you, Luna Lovegood."

She smiled in return, and he turned away. As he walked out of the office, he twirled the cloak around him, feeling it, and its magic, as it settled around his shoulders. Hiding him from everyone and everything.

He glanced back into the office, and noticed Luna standing there in the flickering light. A shimmery trail of starlight slicing down her face. A solitary tear, that flowed. For him, and his destiny, he realized.

She spoke. Her voice a soft, whisper in the stillness of the night; one that followed him as he silently went down the stairwell.

"Love doesn't die with death. Love is like liquid; when it pours out, it seeps into others' lives. Love changes form and shape. Love gets into everything. Death doesn't conquer all; love does. Love wins every single time. Love wins by lasting through death. Love wins by loving more, loving again, and loving without fear."

* * *

**Harry Potter, Jedi Knight**

"Boys! Front and center."

At Vernon's bellow, Harry lifted his head from where he was washing dishes, and glanced quickly at the clock. He gave a short sigh.

Seven at night, on a Thursday.

There was only one thing that happened at seven at night on a Thursday, and that was _The Empire Strikes Back_.

Half six on Wednesdays was for _Return of the Jedi_, while Saturday afternoons were for _A New Hope_. Any holiday involved a marathon.

It did not matter what other people wanted, or expected, his Uncle Vernon had made it quite clear that in his house, at those times on those nights, _Star Wars_ would be played. For as long as he could remember, that had been the case. Both he and Dudley had long since memorized those movies, but his uncle was quite adamant about it.

Drying his hands, he entered the sitting room, and settled onto the floor. Careful not to lean against his aunt's couch. The rest of the family situated themselves on their favorite chairs, and his uncle Vernon gestured with the remote control.

Moments later, the familiar fanfare blared, and the words started scrolling up the screen. Harry forced himself to pay attention; to keep his focus on the movie. To do otherwise was not a smart thing. Even Dudley would get in trouble if he did not pay enough attention or got too loud during the movie. One of the few times when they could all be in the same room, and Dudley would actually get in trouble for hitting him.

Suppressing a sigh, Harry forcibly turned his thoughts away from their meandering, and once again focused his attention on the movie.

The next Saturday morning started as most of Harry's morning did: his cousin bouncing on the stairs raining dust down upon his head. Harry sighed, and pulled a set of clothes from the piles at the smallest portion of the cupboard.

After dressing, he stepped out and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes and toast.

He placed out three plates at the table, and then retreated back to the kitchen where he ate his toast dipped in the fat from cooking the meats.

He was washing up, when Dudley brought in his empty dish, when it happened.

There was a pop, and something was standing on the kitchen counter.

Harry and Dudley both stared at the small creature. He was short, dressed in rags, and had greenish skin, large ears, and a smattering of fine, white, wiry, hair on his head. Oddly, his fingers were wrapped in bandages.

"Harry Potter?"

Both Harry and his cousin turned to face one another, neither wanting to believe what they were seeing.

"I... I'm Harry..."

"Harry Potter, comes to warn you Dobby has. To Hogywarts, Harry Potter must go not. For Hogywarts, terrible things are planned. Terrible things. Harry Potter must go not."

Again, the cousins shared a sharp, quick look. Further

"Uhm... I'm sorry... uh.. wha...whoever you are, but I don't know what Hogwarts is.

The green creature tilted his head slightly, and then glanced over their shoulders. Emotions seemed to wash over the creature, and he turned his large blue eyes onto Harry. "Remember, Harry Potter, sir. To Hogywarts, you must go not!"

Then with another pop, he was gone. Dudley and Harry stared at the spot he had been standing, before sharing a look.

Dudley broke the silence first. "Yoda's real."

Harry nodded his head slightly.

"It knew your name, so you must be a Jedi."

Harry blinked his eyes twice, and then looked at his cousin. He responded in a dull, flat voice. "What?"

"It makes sense. Remember that time you managed to jump onto the roof of the school, or all of those times books came floating to you. I bet turning ugly wigs blue is another Jedi power." Dudley's face screwed up in thought. "Maybe that's the real reason that Dad calls you 'Freak.'"

Harry shook his head. "But..."

"Hey, I'm just saying. It makes sense."

Harry sighed, and rubbed at his face. "But he likes Star Wars. Why would he call me Freak if I'm a Jedi?"

"He's jealous? Maybe that's why we have to watch it every week. It's primer material for you, and Dad's been hoping that I'd learn it or something."

Silence settled around them for a moment. Dudley, looked at Harry hard, before blurting out, "We need to train you."

"What?" Harry responded, his voice once more dull and flat.

"Training! Go to the shed and get the bat. I'll fetch some marbles from my room, and we'll blindfold you. Just like in the movie."

Sighing, Harry nodded his head and went out to the shed to get the cricket bat. Not five minutes later, Dudley was all but dragging Harry down to the park.

Once they arrived, he tied the blindfold on to him, and then spun him around three times.

He took a dozen steps back, and pulled out the slingshot from his pocket.

"I'm using a slingshot. Those stingers in A New Hope hurt Luke, and that's what kickstarted everything."

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"Doesn't matter. I told Dad that I was taking you to the park to use the slingshot and marbles on you. It's how I got you out of having to finish your chores."

Harry sighed.

And then yelped as a glass marble slammed into his leg. He absently began rubbing it.

"That hurt, and you didn't warn me."

Dudley barked a laugh. "You're the Jedi. I'm Boba Fett. I'm not going to warn you."

Then Harry felt another marble smash into his shoulder.

Muttering things beneath his breath, he tried his best to focus on the world around him. Tried to sense the incoming marble.

Only to feel the sharp pain as it slammed into his thigh.

"Come on, Harry. You can do better than that."

Pain flared across his chest.

Then his right cheek.

"Watch the face, Dudley. I don't want to explain to Aunt Petunia why I need new glasses."

"Then feel the Force," came the reply in time with a sharp pain in the small of his back.

Frustration and anger flared in his chest. A tight muscle that stretched at everything.

Pain. This time in the back of his knee.

Pain on his right thigh.

Then the left side of his stomach.

The right thigh again.

That strange tightness flared. Became a brilliant fire in his chest that spread to his head. It settled and burned across his awareness, touching every part of his body.

The tightness faded away to nothingness, and he knew that he had to put the bat in front of his face.

There was a loud crack noise, and then Dudley hollered. "You are a Jedi!"

Before Harry could respond. Dudley was speaking. "Again!"

The warning sensation raced through him. He allowed the bat to drop in front of his thigh. There was another cracking noise.

The bat was moving before he even realized that the warning feeling was still there. Another cracking noise.

The bat moved. Another crack.

"That was awesome!" Dudley spoke in a low, soft, awe-filled voice. "I wonder what else you can do. And we have got to find some way to get you some sword training, and figure out how to build a lightsaber."

Harry shook his head. "Uncle Vernon's never going to let that happen."

Dudley snorted. "Leave that to me. I'll ask for fencing lessons, and then demand that you get some to so I can have someone to practice against."

Harry just scrubbed at his face, even as he muttered, "I have a bad feeling about this..."


	17. Freak

**Freak**

* * *

Freak twitched slightly when the hat was dropped down onto his head. The hat obscured his vision, and sent him into darkness. He had been expecting the punishment for hours now. After all, he had had candy on the train. Had talked to other people.

And had ridden on the train.

It was only a matter of time, before he was punished. He knew the rules. He understood the rules.

So, Freak was not all that surprised at his eyes being covered. He had had something good happen. That meant that the punishment had to be extra. SIR would sometimes cover his eyes when something extra had to happen.

**Oh my.**

Came a voice from everywhere and nowhere. A warm, comforting voice that filled the darkness. Freak twitched again, as he wondered what new punishment this would be.

**I'm not here to punish you, Potter. I'm here to sort you. I'm the Sorting Hat after all.**

Freak felt his face fall into a frown, before he quickly wiped the expression away. Hopefully, the adults had not seen it. He knew the rules.

The voice seemed to sigh.

**You have the most cunning mind I've ever seen, old Salazar would have been drooling to get his hands on you. Of course, you would have to have had a cunning mind in order to have survived your childhood. **

Freak, suppressed a shudder. He did not want to be in a house with Malfoy.

**I'm afraid you're quite right there, Potter. Slytherin wouldn't be good for you. Cunning though you are, there's no ambition in you at all. You live in the moment, and have no ability to plan ahead; not that many of your peers are in much better shape, but most at least understand the concept of tomorrow. Now, Helga would have wanted you, after all, you desperately need some loyalty in your life. **

Again, Freak had to fight to keep his facial muscles relaxed. He was already in enough trouble. There was enough that had happened to him, that he was to be punished for. A flickering concern for OWL washed over him. He had to be able to take care of her, so hopefully, his fingers would not be broken this time.

**That said, you don't really have any loyalty. You've never experienced it, so you wouldn't know how to give it. And your mind, oh, how that's a quick thing. I can see your thoughts as they flicker back and forth. You'd have made Rowena proud. I can positively hear her crowing over you, and the quickness of your thoughts. **

Freak could not help the twitch that wracked him that time. He knew the punishments involved in being smart. He still remembered the one time he had tried to teach himself his letters. When SIR and MA'AM found out, he had been tied to the banister and beaten. While not the last time, that had been the first; and the entire time, they had yelled and stormed and demanded that he, being a freak, was not allowed to know his letters or his numbers or anything else.

**Unfortunately, you've never been taught to use it. Now, for Godric's old house. I was his hat, you know. And bravery you have. You'd have to be brave in order to have lived your childhood. In truth, surviving that might be the bravest thing I've ever seen in my nearly thousand years of sorting children. But, you have no fear. Not a single ounce of it. Sure, you are brave, but you also are fearless-and those are not quite the same thing. **

Freak closed his eyes, and the texture of the darkness changed. This was not something he understood. He should have been punished by now. Where was the belt? Where was the fist? Why were they just waiting?

**I told you, Potter. This is not a punishment. I'll be sorting you where you need to go. You'll need the nobility of Godric's house, hopefully that will be the trait that you pick up the most. Of course, you'll need every once of bravery you possess when it comes time to face the facts of your childhood. When that truth comes out. You could have been great in any of the houses, but I think you'll do best in...**

The voice spoke, but this time it was not constrained to just the darkness. It's gentle tenor echoed out, and came back, tingled his ears, even as it filled the darkness with decision and import.

**"Gryffindor!" **

The hat was pulled off of Freak's head, and he blinked in the sudden light. He could not help but flinch at the stern woman who was standing so close, with the hat in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

Three tables of students were politely clapping, while the fourth and last were going wild with cheers. Two older students, were dancing in place as they sang out "We got Potter!" over and over again.

He stood from the stool, and went to that table. He knew it was the Gryffindor one because everyone sorted earlier had gone to that table. His eyes flickered from one student to the next. There was the bushy-haired girl, and the Indian girl, as well as a boy who had spoken with a dense, Irish accent. Next to him, was the boy who had been looking for his toad.

Finally, he slipped into the first open seat, one which was across from the boy with a toad, and right next to the Indian girl.

The Deputy Headmistress coughed; her voice echoed in the hall as the students calmed down and fell silently. Once they were all settled, she continued calling names, and dropping the hat on the various students. Just a few were left before the sorting was over.

Then the Headmaster stood up. Freak watched this man, knowing that since he was the Headmaster then that meant that he would be the one to punish him like SIR. He figured that the Deputy Headmistress would be the one to punish him like MA'AM did. He suppressed as shiver as he glanced around the hall. He still had not been punished for the candy on the train; but maybe that was why dinner was not on the tables yet. Maybe he was supposed to go down and cook for everyone now that he had been sorted.

Then the Headmaster finished his few words, even as a few of the new students gave out nervous laughs, to the few words the old man had said.

There was a wave of power and the tables groaned as they were suddenly filled with food.

There were platters of meats: kippers, rollmops, smoked salmon, black pudding, lamb, collops, haggis, and something that was big and roasted, either beef or venison. Large platters of potatoes, smoking hot, with little pots of butter next to it. Some type of bean in flour and butter, clapshot, curly kail and what appeared to be orange mashed potatoes. An occasional wheel of cheese was to be found, as well as a number of small loafs of bread; some appeared to be made from rye, while others looked to be made from barley.

Freak's stomach growled as he looked back and forth at all the food that was presented before him, and he used one of the words that SIR would often use, but which would get him the belt if Dudley used. He could not help but frown as he glanced towards the staff table.

The rest of the students were piling their plates full with food. Freak just watched, even as he thought of this new type of punishment. He was certain that he'd rather have his fingers broken, even if it would make it harder to care for OWL than have to watch everyone else eat while he did not get to. At least SIR and MA'AM would lock him into the his Cupboard or his new bedroom before they ate.

Finally, the boy with the toad noticed that the his plate was empty. "Hey Harry?"

Freak blinked twice before he remembered that Harry was what Hagrid had called him as well.

"Yes?"

"Why aren't you eating?"

By this point, the rest of the Gryffindor first years, and a few of the older students had noticed, and were watching. Freak paid this no attention.

"Because it's Sunday."

The other boy frowned, and scratched his head. "Is that because of some religious thing?"

"No." Freak said as he shook his head. "It's just Sunday. Freak's aren't allowed to eat on the weekends. Only every other school day. Or every third day during the summer."

Silence emanated from the other first years. It was an almost visceral thing. One heartbeat. Then two.

Finally, it was broken by the girl with the bushy hair. Freak liked her, she had fixed his glasses. "What? What did you say?"

Her voice was shrill, and almost panicked. It cut through all the conversations at their table, as well as the conversation at the Hufflepuff table. In fact, Freak noticed that most of the others students, and even some of the staff were watching. For a moment, Freak hesitated. He was not supposed to talk about this when not at the place where he slept. But Hagrid said that he would sleep here for a while; for whatever length of time a term was. And the train ride had taken almost seven hours, so it did not make sense that they would be able to go back and forth. So, with that, he decided that this could be talked about here.

"I'm the Freak. I'm only allowed to eat every other school day, and every third evening during the summer. Since school has started, and I ate just yesterday, I'm not allowed to eat today. Those are the rules. I've already broken enough rules that I expect SIR to want to break all of my fingers this time. Hopefully, SIR won't tie me to the banister and use his belt."

By the time he had finished speaking, the entire Great Hall was silent, and appeared to be staring at him.

"Tha... that's.. barbaric! It's illegal! Why didn't the teachers at primary help you? They're supposed to be watching for that!"

Freak's face twitched as he tried to process some of her words. He only recognized a few of them. "I'm a Freak. Freaks aren't allowed to go to school or to learn things like their letters and numbers. Freaks are only good for doing the cooking and scrubbing floors."

There was a sudden crack from the staff table. The Deputy Headmistress was standing in her place, while the Headmaster was sprawled backwards. His large, throne-like chair was toppled over and one of his slippered feet was now resting on the staff table.

"I told you, but you didn't listen. And do ye hear what James and Lily's son is describing as his life? The worst sort of muggles, I said, but would you listen to me? No! I'll bet you never even checked on the lad? You claimed to be his magical, guardian, and he ended up abused by the worst sort of muggles! I'll be taking his guardianship, and you'll not fuss or complain one bit about this, Albus! Are we clear?"

Freak looked around, and noticed the number of horrified faces.

Before he could respond, the bushy-haired girl had changed seats and was now next to him, and then she and the Indian girl had him wrapped tightly in their arms. He tensed up for a moment, fully expecting this to be some sort of new punishment. But the two girls just held him. After a moment, he relaxed and realized that whatever they were doing was comforting and comfortable.

* * *

**AN:** I have a nickname for my youngest son. I've called him said nickname for years. Since he was little. And by little, I mean breastfeeding, diaper wearing, onesie dressed, little. He has now (at the time of this posting) just finished the 2nd grade. The boy responds to the nickname instinctively, without hesitation. He KNOWS that when I say the nickname that I'm talking to him. In fact, he responds faster to the nickname than his actual name at times. A lot of stories touch on the thought that Harry didn't know his name until primary, that he was called 'Freak' or 'Boy' during those formative years, but they still have him identify himself as Harry internally. And that doesn't make sense. Those first few years, where the child is between basically 8 months and 6 years define a child's identity. If Harry was only called Freak or Boy during most of that time, then he would have internalized that as his name.


	18. Redux pt 5

**Welcome to Hogwarts**

* * *

Harry helped Hermione from the boat, and then they walked into a large room. A large, thick, wooden door was on one side of the room, and most of the students were clustered close to it.

There was a rustle through the crowd, and a thin, pinched-faced, blonde boy appeared before them. On either side of him were two larger boys. Thick, heavy set, and both had slightly slow, confused expressions on their faces.

Harry blinked for a moment; looked around the room twice; as if verifying where he was.

Then stared hard at Malfoy.

He was quite certain that the other boy had been thoroughly squished by the lorry. Then with a shrug, he decided that maybe magical healing was quite a bit better than he had been expecting. After all, it had been a few weeks, and there's no telling how many bones can be repaired or replaced with a single dose of skelegrow.

Malfoy sneered slightly at Hermione before looking him over.

"I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." He thrust his hand forward, then with a quick gesture with his head, he continued speaking. "And this is Goyle and Crabbe."

Harry looked down at the hand for a moment, before shaking it as loosely as possible. As soon as he recovered his hand, he quickly wiped it off. "Well, I'm Harry, and this lovely girl next to me is Hermione Granger. And you seem... oily. Kind of remind me of a used-car salesman."

Hermione nudged him, and he glanced at her. She was scowling slightly, as she mouthed at him to be polite.

He grinned and turned back towards Malfoy.

"Well, I must say that you've got to be careful who you pick to be friends with. You wouldn't want to associate with the wrong sort after all."

Harry quickly nodded his head, and grinned. "Of course you're right. I mean, only an idiot would want to be friends with the children of those Death Eater folks. I mean, they were probably raised in such a way that they don't have a lick of common sense to share between them. Probably wear dresses all the time as well."

Malfoy scowled. "That's not what I meant!"

Harry blinked. "Then what did you mean? I'm not going to ignore the girls. I _like_ girls. I mean, that may float your boat, what with those two strapping lads that you have right behind you, but I expect to get married some day. And married to a girl that is."

With that said, he nudged Hermione slightly. She blinked, startled, and then blushed brightly as what he had just implied rushed through her. He grinned, and turned back to Malfoy.

Whose face was mottled with red. "I.. That's not what I meant either!"

Harry shook his head quickly. "Well, you're obviously not very good at describing things, because I'm at a loss. at what you could mean."

"I mean some wizardry families are better than others! And you need to know the right sort!"

Harry frowned and glanced around. "I thought we covered that earlier? I mean, the wrong sort of family has to be the Dead Muncher ones. What with their propensity towards violence, murder, rape and other mayhem. Who would want to know someone like that? Well, someone just focused on mayhem might be interesting, but I have no interest in the raping and murder part of the Dead Muncher families."

He blinked, and then covered his mouth, before looking around. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't look at it from your point of view. You must have been born from one of those Dead Muncher families."

"I... But Father-"

Interrupting him, Harry patted him on the shoulders. "It's okay. You don't have to be mean to everyone, just because your daddy tells you to."

"That's not what I meant!"

Before Harry could respond, someone cleared their throat at the front of the room. He turned that way to discover an old lady standing just inside the door. Her gray hair was pulled up into a tight bun, and she wore green robes, with a tartan sash. A large witch's hat was perched atop her head, and made of felt colored the same green as her robes. Brown eyes flickered across them for a moment.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. I am the Deputy Headmistress, Head of House for Gryffindor and will be your professor of transfiguration. In a few moments, you will be brought into the Great Hall for your sorting. The sorting will place you into your House while you are here at school. Points are awarded to your house as you do good, and removed at for misbehavior. At the end of the year, the house with the most house points, whens the House Cup-a rather singular honor. Each house has a noble history of its own, and I'm certain you each will do it, and Hogwarts herself proud."

She glanced around the room, settling her focus on a student or two, before continuing.

"As I said, in a few moments, we will have the sorting. I'll return shortly and lead you to it. Until then I suggest that you make yourself a bit more presentable."

McGonnagall disappeared back through the door. As soon as she was gone Malfoy leaned towards him, a sneer etched onto his face.

"You best be careful Potter."

"Or?"

"Or you might end up like your parents!"

Harry blinked. He didn't remember this happening in his previous lives, and was quite uncertain what it implied about Dumbledore's plan to save Malfoy's soul, if the child was capable of shouting such things at age eleven.

He blinked again, as he pondered just how to respond.

"I can understand the urge to not want to be a hero," Harry finally said, with a slow nod of the head. "After all, the villains usually gets better outfits. Think about Darth Vader's outfit. But that does have a codpiece. Batman pulls off the black awesome suit without a codpiece. Maybe I do want to be a hero. Well, so long as I get to wear something dark. No bright, primary colors for this hero."

Malfoy stomped a foot, even as Hermione giggled.

"Do you... what is wrong with you?" Malfoy finally said, an almost yell, even as his voice was tinged with a distinct whine.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, but before he could respond ghosts popped through the wall.

He smirked; due to two reasons; the number of the children who screamed in surprise the ethereal visitors, and the content of the ghosts current conversation. One about Peeves.

Suddenly, McGonnagall was in the doorway again, ordering the ghosts to depart.

The first years all watched as the ghosts darted out back through a wall.

"Follow me."

She then turned on a heel and went back through the door. Before long they were all standing in front of the entire school. A dingy, sorry-looking, three-legged stool was situated in the exact center of the space between the students and the staff. It was scratched, and had obviously not been cleaned in a few decades; and it appeared as if it had not even been stained.

On it, was an equally, dirty, dingy wizard hat.

Harry snorted as the thing twitched and began too sing.

After a singularly unimpressive song-after all, Harry did not like 'Tiptoe through the Tulips' in the original release by Nick Lucas, nor the remake by Tiny Tim, he for certain was not going to enjoy a singing hat's taking of the tune for a song about the school's houses.

He glanced at Hermione, and noticed the odd look on her face: two parts horrified and one part mystified.

Then it was time for the sorting.

Abbott, Hannah; Hufflepuff.

Boot, Trevor; Ravenclaw.

Bones, Susan; Hufflepuff.

At this, Harry tuned out, and just watched the sky on the enchanted ceiling for a bit. Until he heard a name called which he actually cared about.

"Hermione Granger!"

Hermione's hand squeezed his, and he blinked. She released the grip they had on one another-a grip he had not realized he was maintaining- and darted to the stool. She all but bounced onto the stool, and jammed the hat down onto her head.

There was a low murmur of voices from the older students, and he noticed one or two of the staff were also whispering to each other. He frowned for a moment, but then remembered all the times he had talked to Hermione or Ron during a sorting.

Then the hat screamed out, "Hufflepuff!"

Harry blinked.

Hermione bounced up out of the seat and primly took the hat off of her head. She looked at it for a moment, and Harry had the distinct feeling that it smirked. She dropped the thing back on the stool, and marched her way over to the Hufflepuff table.

Ron's voice sounded from right behind him. "Glad she's gone there. Couldn't imagine spending seven years in the same dorm as her."

He then patted Harry hard on the shoulder. "It'll be nice not to have her around us in Gryffindor, huh, Harry?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the red head. "You really are a marvolo."

Ron's face flushed with emotion, and Harry turned away. Absently he noted that Malfoy was sitting on the stool. The hat did not even get the chance to actually rest on his head, before it was shouting "Slytherin."

Not ten minutes later, his own name had been called.

Harry started walking forward; not for the first time wondering just what sort of insane, sick, twisted idiot thought it would be a good idea to parade a bunch of scared, eleven year olds in front of the entire school for a sorting. He was surprised there was not more incidences of accidental magic. Or accidents of a wetter nature. Even after doing this a few hundred times, the pressure, and anxiety was overwhelming. There was whispering all over the hall. Little spits and hisses.

Snippets of barely heard conversations. "Potter?" "The Harry Potter?" "Bit short, innit he?"

Finally he was settled on the stool. McGonnagall was standing there, and about to lower the hat onto him, when he raised a hand.

The action actually caused an odd look to flicker across Mcgonnagall's face.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Did you delouse that thing? I mean, there were thirty kids or so before me, and I'm not too certain about that Malfoy kid's hygiene. He seemed... well, oily."

"Mr. Potter, we do not do such things!"

He scratched at the side of his head. "You mean you willingly try to pass lice back and forth between children? What type of school is this? Schools are supposed to help children, not try to get them infested with vermin!"

At this point, Harry noticed the rest of the students were muttering among themselves.

And Hermione's hair had bushed up once again.

And she was scratching at her head.

Harry scratched at the other side of his head. "Next thing you're going to say is that bathing is bad for you."

"Well," McGonnagall replied, rather primly. "Bathing warms the body, while weakening it, and widening the pores to allow diseases from the water to enter. We have added showers due to most of the muggleborns demanding such, but it is recommended that one not bath if possible."

He opened his mouth to reply.

Then scratched at the back of his head.

After a moment, he realized that there was nothing that was going to come out of his mouth, so he closed it with a snap. He glanced around, the Great Hall. Most of the muggleborns looked horrified. The Slytherins looked like Slytherins, and Ron Weasley looked bored and confused.

Harry sighed, and then the hat was dropped onto his head.

**Ahh, Mr. Potter, welco-**

Harry screamed and ripped the hat off his head, and tossed it away from him. Then he bounced up off the seat, and darted backwards. "That... that thing just talked in my head!"

McGonnagall sighed. "Well, of course it did. It's the Sorting Hat. What did you think it did?"

"Sorted people! And sing bad remakes! I figured it made a random choice, and then off the student went. You didn't tell us, that we had to let some thing poke around our brains! Who knows what it could do in our head! Maybe its why there's rumors that all Slytherins are evil! I've only known about magic for a month, and I've heard that from three distinct sources. And met Malfoy."

McGonnagall walked over to the sorting hat and picked it up. With a quick flick of her hand, dust was knocked off. Leaving it quite as dirty and dingy as it was before Harry had tossed it.

"Sit back down, Mr. Potter, so that we can continue on with the sorting."

Harry walked forward slowly, glaring at the hat. "I don't see a brain. I read somewhere that we should never trust something if we can't see where it stores its brain."

"Wise words," the Sorting Hat replied. "And I keep my brain at the tip of my hat. And no, you may not see it. Now, fear not, the Founders made me, and they have enchanted me such that none may learn what I do, when I'm upon your head."

"I noticed you didn't say anything about putting stuff into people's head! I bet you're why all the Slytherins are cunning, and all the Gryffindors ready to run off with a half-cocked plan. You make them that way!"

The hat actually sighed. "The Founders also enchanted me such that I cannot put things into a child's head. In fact, I do believe you're the first child to have ever even consider that might happen. I certainly have never considered it."

Harry frowned for a moment, and then sat back down. The hat was dropped onto his head once again.

**Well, Mr. Potter. That was dramatic, especially considering that I've apparently done this to you a time or three.**

Harry chuckled slightly. "Sorry, but I had to be certain."

**That I can see. That I can see. Now, where to sort you? I see it all in here, you have everything inside of you, and you'd be quite accomplished in any of the houses. But, I think the best for you would be Slytherin. You could be great, and Slytherin would help you with that.**

"But I don't want to be great. I just want to be with my friend."

**Hmmm.. Oh, her. I'm not sure...**

"Well, be sure. I've done this so many times before, and always it's been Gryffindor, or Slytherin, and the occasional trip through Ravenclaw thrown in. No. I'll be in Hufflepuff this time, and you'll accept it because of the loyalty I'm showing to Hermione is such a Hufflepuff trait."

The Hat sighed. **But you could be the best of us!**

"I will be."

**But-**

"I will delouse you."

**Well, in that case, it had best be "Hufflepuff!"**

Harry grinned as he took the hat off. He dropped it onto the stool, as he focused on the Great Hall. The Gryffindors were apparently in shock. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins were politely clapping, while the Hufflepuffs were going somewhat insane.

As he walked down the aisle, his eyes flickered across the other Hufflepuffs. Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley were sitting across from Hermione. A few boys that Harry couldn't remember were on her left.

He dropped into the seat next to Hermione, and nudged her with a shoulder. She was blinking back tears as she wrapped her arms around him. "When the hat put me in here, I thought I was going to lose my first friend."

"Nonsense and bother," he replied with a chuckle. "I told you, I was going to be in the same house as you."

She blushed slightly, and they turned to focus on the remaining students.

Then he felt it again.

That strange disconnection from everything; a feeling of reality suddenly stopping, and then restarting but shifted from how it was. A disconcerting, lapse of nothingness as the universe as a whole blinked.

He gave his head a quick shake, and frowned. Hermione was still sitting next to him, but across from her was not Susan and Hannah, but rather Parvati Patil and Lavendar Brown. Gryffindors.

He glanced down, noting that his own robes trimmed in the red of Gryffindor instead of the yellow of Hufflepuff.

A shudder ran down his spine. He looked around the room, sharply, trying to determine what could have happened. How this could have happened.

There was more clapping and cheering as Ron was announced as a Gryffindor.

Harry shuddered again as the other boy dropped into the seat next to him on the right.

A soft hand touched his left hand. Warm, tingling contact. A spark of something flickered through his awareness of reality.

He glanced down, and looked at it. Hermione's hand was there. Long fingers. Thin. Piano player fingers. One fingernail slightly jagged, evidence that she had a habit of chewing on them.

He blinked, and then turned to look at her. Her brown eyes were dark, and deeper than he remembered. Odd emotions flickered in their depth. For a moment, the rest of reality faded away to a low muteness. Not the blink that he had experienced, but something poignant and pregnant with possibilities.

She blinked, breaking the eye contact, and he felt a tremor race down his spine.

"Are you okay?" Her voice. Slightly shrill from being almost twelve; without the rich, warm, husky tones that would infect it over the next few years. But still caring and filled with concern.

He nodded quickly, and gave the room another quick look, before once again focusing on her.

"Yeah. Just felt a bit of deja-vu."


	19. Redux pt 6

**First Classes**

* * *

Whistling, Harry made his way into the Transfiguration classroom. Hermione was a step or two behind, a frown etching her face slightly, as she twisted back and forth; a hesitant tremble in her step.

Harry glanced around, and noted the standard classroom decor of blackboard twenty-odd student desks, and then the professor's desk.

Upon which, there was a cat.

A short-haired Scottish-fold with tabby-style markings. Her base coat was grey, with darker grey strips across her back, and her face, giving her a mask-like appearance. Finally a splash of white adorned her breast, throat and under the chin. She was sitting quite stiffly upon the edge of the professor's desk; her gaze flickering from student to student as they each came in.

Hermione sat down at one of the front desks, and Harry settled into the seat beside her. She glanced at him, and then nudged him with a shoulder. "Whatever you're planning. Don't."

Harry blinked, and then shook his head quickly. "Not sure, what you're talking 'bout, 'Mione."

She huffed, and began laying out her desk. Book in top left-hand corner, parchment stack in right-hand corner. Two sharpened quills under the book, and the current parchment for her notes in the lower-right hand corner.

Harry shook his head slightly, and pulled out a standard composition book, and two mechanical pencils.

Hermione blinked at his supplies for a moment, but before he could respond, he pulled out what appeared to be the remote control to a television set. But with just a single button.

Harry grinned, and pointed it towards the floor by the edge of the professor's desk, and then pushed the button. A small red dot, appeared.

He began moving it around in somewhat erratic circles, and the cat had shifted its gaze from the door to the floor.

Then it jumped down, and started chasing the red dot as Harry moved it around. He rested it on the wall for a moment, and the cat lunged for it. When she missed, there was a smattering of laughter from the students.

The cat's attempts to catch the red-dot lasted for ten minutes. Five of which were after the class was supposed to have started.

Finally, the cat, was all but panting as it splayed itself in the middle of the teacher's lecture area. Harry finally turned off the laser pointer, and replaced it into his bag, and then glanced around the room. He noticed that most of the students had been paying attention to him, and thus laughing. Hermione had a slight frown on her face.

He gave a shrug, and then nudged her with his shoulder. "Wonder what happened to the professor? Maybe it's a rule, that if the teacher doesn't show up by ten minutes after the start of class that it's a free day?"

"Don't know." Hermione replied as she shook her head. "All I know is that you tired out that poor kitty something fierce, and that there's no rule about that. The rules state that students are supposed to be in a class from start of period to end of period, unless specifically excused from the class."

Harry sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Oh well, it was a nice dream to have. Maybe we should petition to have the rules changed?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the cat wearily stand up, and give him a death glare as it slowly limped from the room and out into the hallway.

A moment later, a distinctly flustered looking Professor McGonnagall appeared in her doorway. She glanced around the room, her stare seeming to rest on Harry for just a bit longer than others, before speaking. "I'm sorry for my tardiness class, do not expect such behaviors to be the normal course of events. Now, please pull out your transfiguration texts."

* * *

Harry plopped into a seat towards the back of the class. Hermione looked between him and one of the seats closer to the front. Her head swinging back and forth a few times. Finally, she stopped right beside him. She stood there, frowning at him just slightly.

"Why aren't we at the front?"

A smirk twisted his features for a moment. "The professor for this class knew my parents. According to my sources he hated my father with a blinding, irrational fury, while at the same time exhibited extreme stalker-like behavior towards my mum."

"And this means?"

"That I don't have faith in the professor to not be horrid towards to me, and I'm sure you heard from the older Gryffs how he reacts to Gryffindors in general."

An odd emotion flickered across her face for a moment.

He patted the desk beside him. "Come on now, sit down here, and be a good little deliquent with me. I'm sure you're just itching to sit in the back of the class."

She settled in the seat, and gave a short frown. "I'll have you know that I often sat in the back of the class in primary. The teacher trusted me back there."

Harry chuckled slightly, as he pulled out a notebook and a pencil. "While I of course sat in the back, as the teacher couldn't be bothered to deal with me."

About this time, the door whipped open, and banged into the wall. The crack sound, drew everyone's attention. Standing in the doorway, was a man. He was about six-feet tall, had sallow skin, and a large hooked nose. Lank, greasy hair framed his face, as dark eyes glittered with malice. He glared at the students as he strolled forward.

The class had paused; silence gripped them as they all watched this dark figure. His movements were filled with purpose and deadly grace as he went from the entrance to the professor's lectern.

At which point he gave them a lecture on the wonders and joys of potions making; quickly followed by insulting the class's intelligence.

Then he called roll.

Harry blinked. He had lived this long enough to know a number of things about the castle and classes. Most importantly at that moment was that there was magic in the classrooms which would indicate the non presence an expected student. It was why not even Fred and George attempted to skip classes.

When he reached Harry's name the reason why became clear.

"Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."

Harry blinked and tilted his head slightly, even as the Slytherins snickered. It was so perfectly timed, and so uniform amongst the snakes, that Harry suspected that they had been ordered to do it. A quick glance among them, revealed that one or two of them looked quite unhappy at the course of events. Malfoy, of course, was not one of those.

"I still don't get why everyone and their brother wants to remind me of the brutal murder of parents. And the way you were just speaking makes think that you're happy at their deaths."

The entire class seemed to gasp.

Snape's face flushed and he sneered at Harry.

"Potter! What's do you get when you add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Absently, Harry noted that Hermione's hand had shot up. Harry watched the professor for a moment, pondering how to take this. Then he shrugged.

"Something muddy, I'd guess. At least that's what you get when you add water with something powdery. Provided it doesn't dissolve totally, and since you said nothing about stirring." Again he shrugged.

The sneer seemed to increase, and Harry forced himself from smirking.

"Where do you find a bezoar?

Hermione's arm began waving.

"The gastrointestinal system, most often the stomach. But if I had to get one, I'd hope for the diospyrobezoar. The treatment for it is Coca-Cola, unlike a trichobezoar where they may have to do surgery."

"Humans can't grow bezoars." Snape snarled. He then spun around, his robes billowing out behind him. "Thought you'd not open a book before class huh, Potter?"

"It's the first class, and there was no indication that we were to have an assigned reading."

"5 points from Gryffindor for cheek, Potter."

Since he was sitting at the back of the class, he could see the other Gryffindors turning towards him and giving him an ugly look. Hermione seemed to shrink, and finally dropped her arm.

"Let's see if you know this one, Potter. What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, not even Hermione raised her hand. He glanced at her, and saw her brow was furrowed, and she was chewing slightly on the lip.

"Nothing. It also goes by the name aconite."

By this time, Snape was standing in front of Harry's workstation. "Well, it seems even a Potter can be right once in a while. Another 2 points from Gryffindor for not knowing the answers."

With that said, he spun back around and strolled to the front of the class. He waved his wand towards the blackboard, and a recipe for a boil-cure potion appeared on it. Harry quickly scanned it, and frowned.

He pulled out his cauldron and his potions kit.

Then he raised his hand.

Most of the students were already crushing their snake fangs, but he just sat there, with his hand raised, and waiting.

"What, Potter!"

"I have a question."

"And?"

"You're the teacher, I'm supposed to ask you questions. You're supposed to answer them. It's part of being a teacher."

The sneer was back in full force. "What is your question?"

"The directions on the board, say we are to slice the the pungous onions, but does not indicate which type of slice to use. So, which type are we to use?"

Snape stared hard. "You slice them, Potter."

"Great, so is that a julienne cut? Or a brunoise? Well, a brunoise is more of a dice, so I'd not go with that. But maybe a batonnet or a paysanne? I'd also consider a chiffonade but that's more for leafy plants."

"You slice them, Potter."

Then Snape spun on his heel, and began stalking around the classroom. Hovering closely behind the most obviously nervous students, or praising a random Slytherin.

Harry frowned for a moment, and then glanced around the room. There was the a single closet in the corner closest to him. As it was opened, he could see into it. Stacks of various jars were within it.

But there were no knives. He knew that in his previous lives he had bought one, despite it not being on the supply list. This time around though, he had only purchased the supplies as stated. Despite the strong hints and suggestions, not to mention out-right statements, of the shopkeeper. In fact the only two magical items that he had purchased that were not on the list was his trunk and an enchanted messenger bag for carrying his supplies for class.

Harry raised his hand again. "What Potter!"

"How am I to slice them?"

"You just do, Potter."

"Great, I understand that. You want us to cut them into random, irregular shapes, with no concern towards size, thickness or uniformity. My question is with what?"

"Your potion's knife."

Harry reached into the inside pocket of his robe, and pulled out a piece of parchment. He quickly scanned it to verify, and then handed it to a wide-eyed Hermione. "Hermione, maybe I'm missing it, but this official school supply list doesn't say anything about a potion's knife. Does it?"

She took it and gave it a quick once over. He absently noted that Hermione's hand was shaking slightly as she handed the list back to him. "No it doesn't. I bought mine because Professor McGonnagall suggested I get one."

"Hmm. Hagrid took me shopping, and would not really let me buy anything not on the list. I only have 3 robes because of that." Harry folded the letter back up, and stuck it into an inside pocket. "Well, Professor. It seems that not only are you demanding students to read things without actually assigning readings, you are also expecting them to have equipment not on the approved equipment list."

The professor's eyes narrowed, as he stared hard at Harry. His voice was smooth and silky, with a distinct undercurrent of anger and resentment. "50 points from Gryffindor. And since you lack the proper tools for my class, get out, and do not return until you have acquired them."

Harry shrugged his shoulders, and started packing up. The class watched in silence as he did so. He gave a quick wink at Hermione who was still watching him. He could tell she was thinking hard about something, but was not sure what that was.

Finally, he had packed everything up, and walked to the door. Once there, he stopped and allowed his gaze to flicker across the room for a moment, before finally landing back on the professor. There was another sharp shrug, and he smirked.

"It's not like there's been any instructions or teaching in this class. We're just practicing recipes. Even muggle cooking classes do more than that."

And with that said, he left the classroom.

Snape's yell deducting another 100 points echoed out behind him. Harry felt a smile flicker onto his face as part of him hoped that there would be no way for McGonnagall to ignore or overlook the loss of over a 150 points in the space of a single class. Especially during a class for first years, where most point additions and subtractions where in the single digits. In fact he doubted all the Gryffindor first years together would have earned 150 points over the entire winter term.

He had been wondering around the school aimlessly, not really focused on where he was going. Thus he was slightly surprised when he found himself standing outside the door to the office for his Head of House. He stared at the door hard, watching it for a long, long moment. His previous lives hung there in his memories, twisting and turning in his gut and feelings. All the various times he had gone to her for help.

All the times she had dismissed him and his concerns.

He reached up and rapped on the door three times. The thick heavy oak was somehow reassuring to him.

The door opened, and he stepped into the room. He glanced around, and noticed that McGonnagall was sitting at a desk, stacks of scrolls in neat orderly piles around her. She was busy scanning one, and making marks on it with a quill. There were two, hard-backed chairs which faced the desk. A three-legged stool, with an odd table next to it, stood in one corner. There was a bookshelf against one wall, while a large window showing the grounds took up another. A few pictures and paintings where attached to the other two walls. And what appeared to be a diploma.

Finally, she rolled the scroll she had been marking back up, and turned her gaze towards him. Steel gray eyes, seemed to pierce him, as she watched over half-rim glasses.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Potter?"

"Uhm.. " He fidgeted, and not for the first time felt the eleven years old that he physically was. For a second his thought processes were sidetracked as he wondered how that was possible with the sheer amount of life experiences he was carrying around in his head.

"Well, something happened in Potions class."

McGonnagall sighed slightly, and glanced out the window. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. But I'm not allowed to gainsay the punishments handed out by another professor."

Harry paused, and tilted his head. He felt a frown forming, and happily allowed it.

Seconds ticked by.

McGonnagall turned her attention away from the window and focused on him.

"So," He began speaking slowly, methodically. "As Deputy Headmistress, you're dismissing my needs and concerns regarding a member of your staff."

She blinked as he said this, before slowing nodding her head.

He glanced down at the floor. He clasped his hands behind his back, as he fought for control of his emotions. He was uncertain which ones were there, but knew they were trying to get out of control. A flood of feelings that tore and raged in his chest.

He chewed on his lip in thought; a habit that he had picked up from Hermione several dozen lives ago. Seconds ticked by. Finally, he looked up and focused on her.

"You said our House was like our family. Is this true?"

"Yes."

"And you are the head of the house. Is this also true?"

"But, of course, Mr. Potter."

"That makes you like a mother, right?"

She blinked, and turned thoughtful. "I.. I suppose it could be viewed like that."

Harry took two additional steps forward, and then sat in one of the chairs that faced the desk. He leaned forward, settling his elbows on the desk, and clasping his hands in front of him. Then he rested his chin onto the ball of his fist. He watched her.

"Now, I've never experienced it myself, and my Aunt at best treats me like an unwelcome vagrant that appeared in her house, but from my reading, mothers are supposed to do a few things for their children. Teach them. Care for them. Make sure they're safe and sound?"

There was a hesitation. "I... Yes, Mr. Potter."

"Now, I, one of your supposed children, came to you with a problem. Thus, I need you, the Mother for my House, the person who is effectively my Mother for ten months of the year, to care for me. Teach me, and make sure that I'm safe and sound."

She blinked, and then she sighed. Leaning back in her chair, she took off her glasses and then ran a hand down her face. "I can imagine the issues that you had with Professor Snape. Unfortunately, in my role as Deputy Headmistress, I must be completely fair and unbiased in regards to him. And since he is a Head of House as well, I cannot listen to the issues of a student in regards to him, unless they are of his house. Any issue regarding a Head of House that is not a student's own must be brought to me by that student's Head of House."

"Which means that you cannot be my Head of House."

There was a tense silence, before McGonnagall sighed again.

"Regardless, Deputy Headmistress, I am coming to my Head of House, and informing her, that I have been kicked out of the Potions class indefinitely." With that said, he pulled out the equipment list and dropped it onto the desk in front of her. He ignored the shocked look on her face as he continued speaking. "The supposed reason for this banishment, is that I did not read the book, when there was no indication that an assigned reading existed, and that I lacked the necessary equipment; equipment that I must point out which did not appear on the approved equipment list. Due to these facts, he removed 157 points from the House."

Standing, he picked the list back up. Slowly he refolded it as he watched the professor. Once it was back into its folded shape he replaced it into his pocket. He could feel his emotions straining; trying to escape his control. He wanted to cry. To punch something. To yell. Anything and everything, but keep his voice and face emotionless. Flat. Luckily years of being the verbal and physical punching bag for the Dursley's had helped in that regard.

"Now, Deputy Headmistress," he said, his voice falling terribly cold for an eleven year old. "I am telling my Head of House, and informing her, that I have been verbally assaulted by a professor of this school. A professor who I know was branded by the murderer of my parents. This does not fill me with warm tidings towards this school. Nor does the fact that said marked follower of the murderer of my parents was only acquitted due to the direct involvement and exhortation of the Headmaster of this school. It leaves me wondering if I am truly safe in such a place."

He stepped away, and went to the door. Once there, he stopped and looked back towards her. "Those marked followers murdered and raped their way through this country, with no regards to race, creed, gender or age, before whatever my mother did stopped him and by extension them. That one of those marked followers is now housed here with children, and is in effect in charge of a quarter of those children, disgusts me."

Then he began leaving the office.

"Mr. Potter, I cannot allow you to continue to speak about the staff in such a manner."

Harry stopped. He gripped the door frame as his emotions flared in his chest. He could feel his magic trying to flare and warp. It wanted to escape and punish the person who had twisted his emotions so much.

"I will tell the truth as I see it, Professor. No amount of point deductions or detentions will change that or stop me. That you protect said murderer over one of your students. Over a member of your own House, Mother, disturbs me almost as much as the fact that said murderer teaches children."

Then, before she could say anything else, he left the room. Hot tears sliced down his face. Anger. Hurt. Resentment. Disappointment. Dozens of other emotions swirled in him. Raged in him.

He fled. Not quite certain where he was going. Or even what he could do.


	20. Stepping into the Past

**Stepping into the Past**

* * *

In a darkened room, far away from other people, far away from other places, a woman knelt in the middle of a runic array. She was singularly focused on her tasks as she ever so carefully etched a rune into the granite floor that she was kneeling on. Jars of what appeared to be paint in silver, gold and blood red were arrayed around her.

Brown hair was pulled back, and tucked into a tight bun, kept away from her tasks. Jeans, sneakers and a baby-doll t-shirt were odd counterpoints to her setting. The room inside appeared to be part of a natural cave system, that had been rounded off. The granite floors, walls and ceiling gave everything a feeling of solidity and timeless purpose, while the lack of natural light, the flickering torches spread at regular intervals on the walls, spoke of arcane knowledge; the hiss of flames could have been whispers of secrets dark and dreadful. Powerful.

The woman leaned back slightly, shifting her weight until she was all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. The movement had lifted her hand away from the rune she had just finished carving. If anyone had been present, they would have seen that there was a shake to her hand; a tremble caused by extreme focus and the buildup of toxins from lack of rest. She scrubbed at her face, one that was lined with stress and worry, with her free hand. A vain attempt at physically pushing away the fatigue that tugged at her awareness and focus. An attempt to push away the fear and the loathing and the deep seated need that compelled her forward; that almost instinctive urge to do what she was doing.

She twisted her neck, and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, as there was the odd crackle of popping joints. Exhaling, the stress lines seemed to fade, and decades dropped away from her countenance, leaving her looking impossibly young and scared. Her face lacked the sharp angular planes and haughtiness which was the current definition of beautiful according to the fashion magazines. There was a comforting beauty about her. Something attainable, and warm and caring and loving. She appeared as lovely as the proverbial girl-next-door. Understated beauty coupled with an open, accepting presence.

Her eyes opened, and though they were bloodshot and worn, there was a fire in those brown eyes. An awareness of what she was doing, of the ramifications, and how they coupled with her hopes and desires and dreams and needs. There was also pain in those eyes. Loss and grief gave life to a sorrow and an unyielding pain which provide the fuel for that fire.

She exhaled slowly.

Then drew in another deep breath.

She traded the carving tool for one of the thin paint brushes that were by her side. She lifted it. Felt it. She knew this brush. Intimately. There was a tingle that twisted inside of her own sense of self every time she touched it. It was almost the touch of a matched wand. She had carved its handle from a grapevine herself. It was in fact the exact same grapevine which old Ollivander had gotten the wood to carve her wand. Thin brown bristles were on its end, hairs the exact shade of brown as the hair she had tucked into a tight bun on her own head. Finally the ferrule, white gold; re-purposed for this by her own hand from her mother's wedding band. She watched it for a long second, before she dipped it into the container that held the silver paint. Ever so carefully, she filled in the rune she had just carved.

Then she covered that with the red.

And finally the gold.

Blowing out another breath, she stood, stumbling backwards a step or so in the process. The array was the largest she had ever seen. It was comprised of the central septagram-the Fairy Star- and then there were 36 rune circles surrounding that. It was a ritual array, an alchemical circle, which all but filled the chamber. Thousands of runes went into its creations as well as nearly a hundred pounds of gold, and silver and nearly fifty gallons of her own blood. It had taken her seven years to design and another three to actually carve into the granite floor.

She walked over to her workbench, and picked up seven small containers. Then she returned to the septagram, and stood in its center. She spun around and around, until she stopped facing one of the seven points. This was the first point in the fairy star, and it pointed towards the Pleiads; more specifically directly towards Alcyone. Stars that were important for Samhain, for tears and mourning; for the time between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. Stars devoted to remembering the dead.

She focused on her own fairy star, and the first of her containers.

In the first star point was the symbol for Saturn; representative of material controlling mind and the encroachment of time over the works of men. Around this, she spread out the first container, which held the dust from a time turner.

The second star point held the symbol for Jupiter: or mind over material, and the gods over the earth. Into this, she poured out a vial which contained the ground up horn of a unicorn.

The third point held the symbol for Mars; matter above spirit. Around this circle was the blood of a thestral.

The fourth point held the symbol for the Sun; pure spirit. Pure soul. The source of magic and life. Into this, she placed the ashes of a phoenix.

The fifth point held the symbol for the moon. This was the symbol of the mind. Of memory. Into this container she poured out a circle of her own blood.

The sixth point held the symbol for Venus. Spirit over matter. She poured out a circle of the tears of a phoenix.

The seventh and final point held the symbol for Mercury. Mind above spirit over material. Into this, she poured out a vial of quicksilver.

Then she spoke.

She spoke words in the language of creation.

Those words were spoken in an oddly inflected sound. Both guttural and lyrical. Harsh music and tinkling bells. Words, a language, even a _sound_, that was not truly meant to be spoken from the tongue of a human or mortal. It was the sound of something from ages gone past, and from before time and before life and the universe. It was the sound of the unrealized tomorrows and the promises of the next moment.

It was the sound of the hereafter and the never come. The sound of the next second, and the hour before. The sound of nothing and everything.

It was the sound of life and death. Of beginnings and Endings, and the nothing and everything that separated and joined the two.

It was the sound of Armageddon. Of battles and wars. Of the unending clash between darkness and light; between chaos and order, and the unyielding march towards entropy.

And it was the sound of rebirth. Of renewal and spring, and the promise that there was something more. That there would always be something above and beyond us. Call it Heaven or Nirvana, or even the Next Great Adventure, there was just something to attain and grow into after death.

With that sound, those words, echoing in the confines of the room, the array flared into life. Eldricth energies coursed around the room, energizing the array, giving it an unearthly green glow. It was a glow she recognized. A color she recognized. It was a color that both thrilled her and terrified her. One she loved and loathed and felt at home at, and tried her best to run away from.

It was the color of soul magics.

The color of the Killing Curse.

And of course, the color of Harry Potter's eyes.

Power surge through the array, and reality itself trembled. The phrases she had been speaking had taken on a life of their own. They continued to spill out of everywhere and nowhere; the chant growing in power and speed. Even as that light grew brighter. The array began spinning, and twisting. First the outer-most circle, but with each repetition of the mantra, the next circle in would begin turning.

Finally, the fairy star she stood in began twisting around her, unless she focused on it, then it was perfectly still. All while still turning and twisting about her. The power and focus of the ritual circle drew itself down upon her. Focusing its intent and will and power. Limitless power that grew and grew with each second. Power which stretched from here to the hereafter, and fell backwards to the time before.

She watch the watch strapped to her wrist. Waiting. Waiting for that right moment; that specific need, special time.

The second hand moved slowly. Seemingly dragging hours between each tick.

Finally, inevitably, the hour hand struck 3 a.m. The Witching Hour. That moment of the day when magic would be at its most potent. Especially a witch's magic.

She spoke the final word of the ritual. The focal word. Still in that harsh, guttural and lyrical language. A demand of magic. An entreaty of magic. A plea for the ritual to work. The sound of the word reverberated in the room. Echoed throughout it, seeming to twist through the still ongoing chant.

Magic surged.

Silence gripped everything. The last haunting syllable hung in the air, an almost physical presence even as the ritual circle snapped to a stop. The power that coursed through everything trembled, even as the green light brightened, into a glaring whiteness.

Then the white was gone.

The world stopped.

The universe paused.

Light and Dark ceased its struggles.

Existence held its breath.

For a frozen moment of time, everything was absolutely still. No births. No death. For that singular, unending moment, entropy ceased. Life and death ceased.

The power surged through her; touched her, and burned her. It fractured her mental processes, even as it clarified her thinking. Her heart, her body, fried up, burned away to ashes, only to reform anew within the swirling, all-consuming energies. The power, the _MAGIC_, was everywhere and nowhere and she felt the urge to scream; yet at the same time she wanted to laugh.

She had done it.

This was her chance to change everything. To really help Harry Potter. To give him the chance to live and survive and not fall prey to the machinations of manipulative old men, and their followers. To ensure that he lived a good life, free from potions and pain. To help him, as she had done so many times before, and ultimately to correct the greatest mistake of both of their lives.

The air in front of her shuddered and spasmed and then tore.

The universe itself seemed to bleed from the wound that was before her. Liquid quicksilver flowed and roiled in the air above the symbol for Saturn. Slowly the liquefied remains of space and time solidified in front of her, becoming a solid crystal. In the thousands of facets, she could see scenes and memories and things she had not known. A well storm of knowledge and choices-some taken and some adverted. Some never given the chance to have been chosen.

Then it fractured.

The shards flew outwards for roughly three inches, and then began rotating faster and faster. A vortex of energy flickered into life. Energy arced around the room, in a vain attempt to stabilize itself. One significantly powerful bolt jumped out and scored a deep dark gash across the ceiling.

Ozone hung heavy on the air, coupled with the aftertaste of blood and sulfur.

Finally, the arcs of power slowed down. The vortex stabilized becoming a pool of quicksilver hanging before her. The shards of the crystal swirled around the pool, giving it an edge that glittered and shimmered.

It was beautiful and terrifying and everything she had hoped.

She grinned at the thing, and then jumped into it.

Everything that she was was pulled and stretched and twisted. She felt the focus of something above her. Instinctively, she knew that what she had done had called to something; had caused it to look her way. Something that was greater and just _more_ than she was. Something that was greater and more than her magic or the world or the universe itself.

Light flared around her. She found herself in an area of complete whiteness.

A doorway appeared before her, one covered with eyes.

The eyes blinked open, and fully focused on her.

She felt small.

Insignificant.

For the first time in her life, she fully understood what the Bible meant when it said to fear the Lord. This was a fearfull reverence. An awe that gripped her and filled her and flared within her.

The focus of those eyes burned through her, gouging at bits of her self and her subconscious. She felt the weight of the attention, alongside the knowledge that this was attention she should not have. She should not be its sole focus. It should not be so intimately aware of her. She knew just how an amoeba should feel when being stared at by a human.

This awareness was so far outside her understanding of everything that it should never look her way.

Yet it did.

And apparently, it found her acceptable.

More importantly, it found her _quest_ acceptable.

That task that she had fixed for herself. The reason for the runes and the array and the ritual.

It approved.

The doorway opened, and she saw.

What she saw she knew she would never be able to describe in detail. It was everything and nothing. It was the sum of all time and choices and lives. The collective yes that was reality as a whole. Universes and choices and possibilities all rolled into a spiral of function and plans and abilities and choices.

It was all the same and all the different. Beneath everything, beneath every symbol, every power, every life, every choice and every moment, there was an underlying oneness. A commonality to everything and to nothing. A commonality to every choice taken and every choice denied. It was a sameness, one which highlighted every choice and every facet of its self, yet the greatest aspect of this sameness, this commonality, is how it created the illusion of difference. This was what gave everything magic. This sameness is what allowed magic to work and to thrive and to breath and to live.

There was the same being or entity or force. Call it magic, God or merely the Presence, it was there. It just **_was_**.

She fell into the spiral, drawn to one of an infinite number of beads that were the exactly same, but vastly different, as every other bead. And while she fell, so did an infinite number of other hers, towards an infinite number of other beads, while another infinite number of beads lacked her falling towards them.

Yet for all this, all of those other hers they were all the same and yet each one was different.

Power crackled around her. Drawing her focus back to her own self and towards the world which flew towards her. It called to her, and she was drawn to it.

She knew that she would be back in what she viewed as the past. That she would have the chance to change things. To fix things. To ensure that Harry did not grow up unloved and alone. To ensure that he had the tools he needed to be effective at saving the world. To ensure that he had the tools he needed to recognize the fact that he loved her, long before the Weasleys and Dumbledore got their claws and their potions into him. And into her.

She felt power pour through her. The energy of life and time and magic and death itself twisting around her.

And then darkness.


	21. Redux pt 7

**Broom Lessons**

* * *

Harry woke up that morning. Actually somewhat excited about things, especially after the earlier conversation with McGonnagall. Today was the day. The best day of the First Year. No other day came close to comparing to this one particular day. No matter how many times he got to experience it, it was just the best day.

Today was the first day for broom lessons.

He bounced out of bed and quickly dressed. A quick glance showed that most of his dorm mates were stirring. So, he entered the bathroom and did his morning routine. Then still, in a happy, chipper mood, he dashed downstairs.

He found Hermione waiting for him. She was sitting in a chair, her face in a book, staring at it even more intently than normal. There was a harsh tense set to her shoulders. A strain in them that was evident even from across the common room. All but whistling, he dropped onto the couch cushion next to her, and then wrapped her in a tight hug.

She squeaked in surprise at his sudden presence. Dropping the book in the process. Her hair got bushier, as she looked down at it, and then at him.

"Harry, why did you do that?"

He chuckled. "Because you're too tense. It's just flying lessons. If it was that dangerous then they wouldn't teach it to first years."

She glared at him. "Just because you were kicked out of potions, doesn't mean that you can forget what I said about the class. You know that that boil-cure potion melted a pewter cauldron. It _melted_ it. And then gave Neville boils."

He barked a laugh. "I said teach. Snape doesn't teach. He supervises a practicum. And supervises it poorly. And wait... isn't pewter a deadly poison if ingested?"

She blinked, and he smiled at having derailed her thoughts. "Uhmm... It has lead and antimony and a few other heavy metals which are highly dangerous to ingest over the long term. But I think so long as the liquid that inside it's not acidic it won't get at those elements."

He nudged her. "The potion ate the cauldron. That seems pretty acidic to me."

She shrugged. "We don't know it's PH. It could be a base."

He laughed and stood up, dragging her with him. "Now come on now, despite the fact that it's entirely spent sitting on our bums, today's lesson is the closest this place has to physical education, so we need to go have a good breakfast."

She shook her head. "Why do you do that?"

They exited the common room, and started heading towards the Great Hall.

"Do what?"

"Compare Hogwarts to our junior schools?"

He stopped and looked around. There was no-one near. And no portraits either. He tilted his head slightly, focusing his attention on her. "Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"Even with being alone and friendless and bullied, I think I was getting a much better education during junior school. We should be starting first forms this year. That means we'd study math, science, grammar, literature, history, and then also have art or music and phys ed. Instead, we have charms, transfig, DADA, History, astronomy and potions. While, in theory, we're being taught magic, what we're not being taught are those skills that we will need to survive in the real world. While we could probably skate by with out the science or literature, we need math and grammar in order to do anything in the real world. Every job out there involves math. But we're not being taught it here. And I'd argue we need literature so that we can understand culture. The point is, school is supposed to prepare us for life after school. Here, we're turning buttons into beetles; but how does that help us get ahead in life? Before I learned about magic, I wanted to be an engineer when I grew up. I wanted to make a better saloon, a safer saloon; because my relatives said that my parents had died in that wreck."

Absently, Harry scrubbed at one watery eye.

"But," he paused, and struggled with his emotions. That was something he had never before revealed to anyone, in any of his previous lives. He swallowed the lump in his throat and then continued, a tenseness to his voice. "Nothing we're being taught here would help me with that. And worse, I found out that the dreams I had had about doing something good were based upon nothing but a lie. So, yeah, I'm comparing Hogwarts to what we knew in junior, and even primary, and I'm finding it... lacking."

Silence hung between them for a moment. She watched him, her eyes looked like tears wanted to come out. Her entire presence seemed to scream that she wanted to jump on him and hug him.

He sighed and scrubbed at the back of his head. A quick glance at the ceiling before focusing back on her. "In fact, there's only one good thing I've found since learning about magic."

"What?"

"You. You and your friendship."

That admission hung between them for a few moments. She blinked, a blush giving her face much-needed color. Then her arms were wrapped around him; and she was squeezing him for all she was worth.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered into his shoulder as his own arms went around her; returning her hug.

Finally, she pulled away, the blush still on her face. She grabbed his hand, and began pulling him along. Heading towards the Great Hall and breakfast. But even still, he could tell that Hermione was once more thinking hard; her brow furrowed and biting slightly on her lower lip.

A short while, a good breakfast, and an attempt by Malfoy to steal Neville's Remeberall later, Harry and Hermione were walking out to one of the greens near the Quidditch Pitch. Twenty or so brooms were laid out in two lines that faced one another. The Gryffindors were sharing this class with the Slytherins of course. After all, it was a dangerous, and potentially deadly, lesson, so that meant that Dumbledore wanted the two houses most likely to try to sabotage or hurt one another to be take it together.

Harry smirked at the line of Slytherins that stood by their own brooms. Greengrass, Davis and Moon were off to one side whispering to one another, while Parkinson and Bulstrode were closer to Malfoy and his bookends. in the center of the row. The remaining boys were off to the right, and seemed to be more focused on the brooms on the ground than the Gryffindors who were approaching them.

This was something he remembered nicely. In all of the lives he had lived, this was one of the few scenes that remained fairly static over the cycles. Draco was a pillock. Neville broke a wrist. Draco was a bigger pissant. Harry intimidated him a bit, and viola! Spot on the Quidditch team.

He noted Draco's sneer, and just smirked more widely at the boy. Before words could be exchanged, a strong voice came from behind him.

"Well, what are you all waiting for, get to a broom."

Harry turned and noticed the flight instructor heading towards them. He silvery hair was short and wind-swept, and her yellow eyes seemed to flicker across all the students. She gave Harry the distinct impression of a hawk. Or maybe a vulture. Something birdlike and just waiting for some misfortune to fall on the unwary. Most likely so she could consume them.

Suppressing a laugh, he went to stand by a broom, and pulled Hermione along with him. He dropped her hand, and she continued another step to the next broom in line. As she stopped beside it, she glanced up at him, her eyes slightly watery and frightened. Unable to help himself, he reached out and grabbed her hand, and gave it a quick squeeze.

Surprised, she blushed fiercely, and gave him a weak smile. Once again, he dropped her hand and stood calmly by his broom, focused on the instructor.

"I'm Rolanda Hooch, and I'm the flying instructor here at Hogwart's. We're starting out today with the simple mechanics of flight. First, hold out your dominant hand over the broom, and yell out 'Up!'"

Harry did so, and the broom smacked against his palm. He could feel a thrum of energy from it, a wash of power, that begged to be let loose.

He glanced over at Hermione, and saw her frowning down at the broom. Frustration marring her features, as she all but stomped her foot and demanded the broom to jump up. It bounced, smacked her palm, and then dropped back to the ground.

Further down, he saw Neville's broom rolling over.

He shifted closer to Hermione.

"'Mione," He whispered at her.

Her head snapped around, as she stared at him. "What?"

Smiling, he nodded towards her broom on the ground. "You're putting too much intent into it. We all know that magic is intent, that's the first thing the Charms book tells us, but you're not casting magic with this. You're activating and powering magic. The flight spells are already cast. The up command, brings the broom to your hand. Don't worry about catching the broom, the broom will catch itself. Just tell it 'up.'"

She stared at him for a moment, and then sucked in a deep breath before letting it out.

"Up."

The broom launched itself upwards, and placed itself into her hand. She blinked at it twice in shock, before looking towards him again. The blush was back on her face, as she smiled at him.

"Thanks, Harry." Her voice was almost whispered.

He grinned at her, but before he could respond, Hooch spoke again.

"Now, let's mount the broom. The proper grip is your dominant hand should be further from your body. This is to better allow the charms on the broom to be controlled. But being comfortable with holding the broom is more important than exact hand placement. Now, when I blow the whistle, I want everyone to kick off, raise up about five meters, hover there for a count of ten and then slowly lower yourselves back to the ground."

Her hawk-like eyes flickered across the class, and then she raised the whistle to her lips. But before she could blow on it, there was a startled yelp, and Neville was lifting off. His right hand was holding onto the broom tightly, while his left was flinging around wildly.

"Get back down here boy!"

Instead of doing that, Neville shot up fifty feet and then began drifting. He flew over them, and then the Slytherins, before heading towards the forest. A burst of wind, and he was suddenly falling.

There was a loud crunch when he landed.

Hooch hurried over to him, and did something. Harry could not quite see what, but the flash of spellfire was quite obvious. Then she was herding him towards the entrance to the castle. As she neared the class, she glared at them all. "You will all stay on the ground. Anyone not listening will be banned from further flight lessons at the castle, and not allowed a broom at school in the future."

There was a tense hush; a silence that seemed to grip all the students, that clung to them with the realization that they could be hurt while flying. It stretched out, for one heartbeat. Then two.

Then Draco shattered it by laughing. It was a harsh, callous, laugh; tinted dark with the enjoyment of someone else's pain. The blond boy nudged Goyle on the shoulder, his amusement clear in his voice. "Did you see that great lump?"

Harry frowned. He had memories of Draco doing that from quite a few lives, and it always angered him. Without really thinking, he shot his hand forward and snarled at his broom. "Up!"

And just like that, the broom, snapped up from the ground. Yet instead of jumping straight upwards and into his hand, the broom shot forward and upwards. It slammed hard against Draco's throat before anyone had time to react.

Draco dropped to the ground, a gurgling sound escaping from him. The entire class watched in horrified fascination as Draco writhed on the ground clutching at his throat. After a few minutes, he stilled. Everyone had just watched.

Parkinson knelt down beside him, and then gave Malfoy a quick shake. She touched his face, and then jerked her hand back, and fell backwards in apparent shock. She stared hard for a moment before turning towards Harry. "You'll be in Azkaban for this!"

Goyle knelt down as well, staring hard at Malfoy. Then he too turned and looked at Harry. A terrified, outrage filled his voice. "Merlin! You killed Draco!"

Crabbe's focus shifted from Malfoy towards Harry, a dark glare on his features, and his voice was also filled with anger. "You bastard!"

Reality twisted. There was that moment when there was nothing. No light. No dark. Nothing grew. Nothing decayed. For a single moment, less than a second, less than a heartbeat, there was absolutely nothing. No reality. A simple moment of non-existence as the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?" Draco's voice said with clear amusement and darkly good cheer.

Now it was Harry's turn to blink. Standing there was Draco. Once again laughing. Goyle and Crabbe laughed right along with him, and Parkinson was giggling into her hand.

He frowned, before turning around looking at the other students. None of them looked out of place. Most of the Gryffindors were looking at Draco with disgust, but none of them had that horrified, deer-in-headlights, look they all had been wearing just moments before.

Harry pulled his wand. and snapped conjured a large anvil over Draco. It slammed into him with sickening squelch and crunch noises. A spray of blood and other things splashed across the entire group of students.

There was terrified screaming from everyone that time.

Goyle looked at him, and once again yelled, "Merlin! You killed Draco!"

"You bastard!" Crabbe snarled.

Then the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?"

Harry looked down at his chest to find that he was once again clean and not covered with bits of Draco. He rubbed at his robe, verifying that fact. Frowning, he looked back up at Draco and once again pulled his wand.

With a quick flick of holly, Harry cast a levitation charm. Draco let out a terrified, girl-like squeal as he shot hundreds of feet into the air.

Then Harry canceled the spell.

The squeal changed into a terrified scream as everyone watched Draco fall to the ground. The blonde's screams echoing in the courtyard the entire time.

Screams that were cut off with a sudden thump. Harry blinked, slightly surprised at how little Draco squirted with that particular death.

After a moment, he shifted his attention and focused on Goyle. Goyle's focus was still on Draco, as he stared at the mangled remains which the other boy had become. Finally, Goyle looked up, and at Harry. "Merlin! You killed Draco!"

Crabbe, who had stumbled to the ground when Draco had come to a sudden stop at the end of his fall, finally looked up at Harry. His face was pale, and he looked slightly sick to the stomach. "You bastard!"

Then the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?"

Spell Fire.

"Merlin, you killed Draco!"

"You bastard!"

Then the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?"

Spell Fire.

"Merlin, you killed Draco!"

"You bastard!"

Then the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?"

Spell Fire.

"Merlin, you killed Draco!"

"You bastard!"

Then the universe blinked.

"Did you see that great lump?"

Draco was leaning against Goyle, while Crabbe was leaning over his own legs. All of them laughing for all they were worth. A harsh, tense mocking laugh.

"Why won't you stay dead?"

Harry realized that he had asked that out loud when everyone began staring at him.

Frowning, he looked around for a rock. After a bit of a search, he found one about the size of his hand, and picked it up. He tossed it into the air before catching it. Nodding, he smiled down at the rock, before lifting that smile towards his classmates.

As one, the Gryffindors and most of the Slytherins took a step away from him.

Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were too busy laughing though. Parkinson seemed to have realized that something was happening.

Calmly, Harry walked over to the still laughing Draco, and then smashed the rock into his face.

Blood flew as Draco crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain. Harry straddled the boy, and then brought the rock down onto him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Harry let out a heavy breath as he dropped the bloody rock onto Draco's ruined face, and then he glanced up at the sky. He did not have to wait long.

"Merlin! You killed Draco!" Harry was not certain, but he was almost positive that that was still Goyle, but the other boy was not nearly as invested in the cry as he had been the first time. Or the fifth.

A heartbeat latter was Crabbe's response though. "You Bastard!"

Harry held his breath for a moment, waiting for that blink. Instead, he heard a voice from behind him.

A familiar voice.

An _angry_, familiar voice.

"Would you stop doing that you little prick?"

Harry glanced behind him to find Jeffery standing there, anger twisting his features. "I'm not sure how you're escaping the mass mind reconfigurations when we roll back time, but you need to stop that. There's only so many times we're supposed to reinsert someone into the time stream."

Harry nodded sagely. "Ah, I see. You just don't want me to waste all my times killing Draco right now. I've got to learn patience. That way I can kill him at random times over the next seven years! Thanks!"

Jeffery blinked at him, before sighing and shaking his head. He muttered something under his breath that sounded quite obscene. Harry just assumed it was about him in some way.

Then the universe blinked.

* * *

**AN:** all I've got to say is... I'm sorry.

The thing is that originally, I had two full scenes for REDUX that I immediately wrote out. That's not to say that the other hooks for the scenes weren't there. For example, I knew I'd have him use 'Marvolo' as a type of generic insult and name Hedwig, Volodimorte. I also knew that he'd push Draco out into oncoming traffic, and have a few other things in my list of things Harry should do during repeats.

But there was only 2 full scenes that I actually immediately wrote out. The 1st was where we discover that Harry had been stuck inside Reptilla's challenge for a significant amount of time. I mean, if there's a limit to the number of possible repeats, why would it be 7 or even 48 or some of the other numbers we often see in relation to the challenge? Thus, you have a Harry who has done this quite a number of times; and they (i.e. Death) just happened to break something with him this time.

The second full scene that I wrote out was this one (well, the broom portion of it, minus the character growth at the start). I mean, in this conceit we KNOW that Death/Fate/Whatever is tinkering with things. That being dead, doesn't mean that one stays dead. Since, another thing I had in my list of scene hooks were two more with Draco (one that is shown in Redux pt 5, and one associated with Redux pt 4 where he tosses Draco from the Express-that was sadly cut). Then I wrote out a hook, where he kills Draco during the broom lesson. Those four hooks, which included three distinct deaths for Draco, were what led to this scene, and the thought behind it. And as soon as the thought had appeared, I HAD to write it, and the broom lesson was the best place to flesh out the thought. As I said earlier, Death is tinkering, so people don't stay dead, and that made me think of another character who is famous for not staying dead.


	22. Yet More Mish-Mash

As I've stated before, the Mish Mash chapters are a number of smaller bits of fics, none of which I think deserve to have their own chapter entry due to their size (or their lack thereof). But I can toss 3 or so of them into a single chapter, and get a roughly 3000 word word count.

enjoy!

...

..

.

**The Monkey King**

**A/N - this particular bit of fic came about due to one of Mr. Blot's 'Things I'd Like to See In a Fic' list. Number 452 if memory serves.**

* * *

Harry stumbled out of the tent and into the bright sunshine. He frowned, Novembers were supposed to be cold and overcast.

He gave his head a sharp shake in order to stop the random thoughts.

Sighing slightly, he stepped into the arena and came face to face with the latest monstrosity to be inflicted upon him.

This one, happened to be a real monster. Forty feet long, when dark scales that were either a really deep navy or black. The dragon's tail flicked back and forth, drawing attention to the large spines that jutted out in a regular pattern. Her large wings flared out and flapped causing a wave of dust to swirl around the arena. A long serpentine neck twisted and twirled.

Finally, Harry looked up and saw the head. A ring of sharp horns stretched up in some horrid parody of hair; the rest of her face though appeared almost bird-like in its intensity. Her eyes twirled, and whirled; smokey colors that seemed to denote anger flowed through them.

He gulped as he stepped forward.

The dragon hissed. A low, sibilant sound that seemed to carry words to him over the wind. **§I am Ao Hwang, wife of Ao Guang, Dragon King of the Eastern Sea. Who dares to come attack my children!§**

Harry swallowed slightly, angry, nesting dragons was not something he had ever wanted to come face to face with.

Without thinking, he responded to the words. His own voice a low, whispering hiss. **§I'm sorry Ao Hwang, but I am not here by choice. I've been entered into this type of game, and sent to retrieve a fake egg from your nest.§**

The dragon's attention shifted from the crowds around them to him. Her head lowered, and twisted around until she was fully focused on him.

**§You are scared, but not of me.§**

He could not help but laugh.** §You speak, and have obvious intelligence. That means you can be reasoned with, and thus I can explain myself. I did not know this before. We are told tales that dragons are wild beasts unable to reason.§**

She stared hard at him. §**For most of my kind that is true. But I am Ao Hwang. I have been alive for more years than your people can count. I saw the collapse of the great seas, and unless I am slain, I shall see them once again reclaim the lands.§**

Harry nodded his head.** §Oh. Well, that's great, and, if that's all, I guess I'm going to go back inside that tent now.§**

The dragon's eyes narrowed as she stared harder at him. **§You're not concerned about your contest?§**

He gave a quick shake of his head. **§As I said earlier, I didn't want to enter, someone entered me, because people have a tendency to die in this thing.§**

She snorted, and smoke rose from her nostrils to gasps from the now silent crowd. **§****So, little Monkey, you are beset by enemies, who wish to harm you.****§**

**§Been that way since I first came to school.§**

**§****Then, I shall give you a new gift, if you can use it.****§**

Before he could respond, she reared up and and once again flared her wings. Her long neck twisted skyward and she screamed out at the heavens. It was a sound that seemed to reverberate against the rocks and the sky. A noise as loud as creation itself.

Then her front legs crashed back to the ground, with the sound of thunder. Magic roiled, and she spat fire at the ground in front of him.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Forty.

A full minute of sustained fire, and then it was gone.

What was left behind was a patch of blackened volcanic glass, and a long iron rod. Gold bands coiled around each of its ends, and strange markings were etched down its length. Automatically, Harry stepped forward as the rod began to glow with a golden light.

Ao Hwang laughed. **§****That glow decides it, little Monkey. I have only seen it glow in such a way once before, and that was for its previous owner.****§**

Harry reached out and lifted it up. It was heavy, but not uncomfortably so. Magic thrummed across him; power and awareness that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He could feel it running the length of the iron, and twisting around and through him.

Which surprised him, as according to common belief, cold-iron was the antithesis of magic.

"Would be easier to use if it were a bit smaller." he muttered.

As he finished speaking, intent and magic flared, and he found himself holding a iron rod that was the same size as his wand.

He gripped it in the standard dueler's hold, and gave it a wave. Magic flared. It twisted around him so thick he could taste it and bright motes of raw magic spurted from the far end of the rod. A flare of colors: red, gold, yellow, orange. Warmth and acceptance. Happiness and summer.

He blinked, and realized that he had a somewhat silly grin plastered on his face.

Schooling his features, he gave a quick bow to the dragon. **§Thank you for the gift.****§**

Ao Hwang's eyes had slowed their twirling, and now showed cooler colors within them. Purple and blues dominated. **§It is of no consequence. Use the Ruyi Jingu Bang well, young Monkey.****§**

Harry grinned, and slipped the rod into an inside pocket. As he did so, the dragon nuzzled the golden egg away from her nest. **§Here is the imposter egg, young Monkey.****§**

Harry picked it up, and gave her another quick bow. **§Thank you, Ao Hwang.****§**

The dragon turned away and breathed flame around her eggs before settling down; wrapping her long body around them.

**§Go forth and conquer your enemies young Monkey, and do so with the blessings of the Dragon of the Eastern Sea and his wife.****§**

Harry smiled one last time before walking away, and back into the competitor's tent. As he crossed the open ground he noticed that the crowd had grown silent and still while he had been talking to the dragon. He looked around, and could not help but smirk at all the shocked faces that appeared to be staring at him.

Then he entered the tent, and was suddenly hit with three distinct medical diagnostic charms. He frowned as the foreign magic washed over his body, and through his magic.

"Don't just do that!" he snarled. "I think it's unbelievably rude to hit someone with magic without warning them."

Pomphrey blushed slightly. "Sorry, Mr. Potter. It's just that you're typically the worst hurt out of anyone around."

He chuckled, "Well, not to worry, not a scratch on me."

Before anyone else could respond, he was bowled into. Strong, but thin, arms wrapped around his chest, and he could feel a distinctly female body holding him from behind.

Hermione's voice came from somewhere around his shoulder-blades. "Oh, I was so worried. How could they make you face dragons, and then when you didn't do anything, but stare at it."

Harry twisted around, until he was facing her. Once that was accomplished, she latched back onto him, her face shoved in the crook of his neck. Her body shook with her tears, and he wrapped his arms around her almost instinctively.

He pressed his face into the mass of curls that was her hair, and whispered, "Please don't cry, Hermione."

* * *

**Hermione Granger: Gun Girl**

Awareness washed over her. She blinked twice, and stared hard at the ceiling above her. She knew that this was not the ceiling of her room. Nor of her parents. But she could not really recall what those ceilings looked like.

She just knew that it was not right.

And that there was something else not right as well.

A cough attracted her attention, and she shifted her head to find a man sitting in a chair beside her bed. He was an adult, dressed in a business suit, and had short-cropped brown hair.

"Ah, you're awake, I see."

She blinked, and tried to speak. Pain flared across her throat for a second, and she winced.

The man smiled, but it lacked kindness. He poured some water from a pitcher into a glass and held it out towards her.

"Here you are."

She took the glass and drank some water. It felt cold and calm and soothing as it raced down her throat.

"Thank you," she replied in a whisper. Her voice harsh, and scratchy.

He nodded, before speaking. "My name is John White. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and glanced down at the sheet that was covering her. "I... I feel fine. A little achy and my throat hurts, but okay. Where's mum and dad?"

He nodded his head, and glanced at the window for a moment before focusing on her. "I'm sorry to say this, but there was an accident. Your parents dental practice was bombed, and you were the only survivor. As of now, you are now my ward."

Pain gripped her chest, a tightening vise that wanted to squeeze everything out of her. "Mummy? Daddy?"

There was a brief shake of the man's head.

"I'm sorry dear. They're no longer alive. The Department of Children Services has signed you over to the Social Welfare Agency, Section 2. This is due to the fact that you were hurt quite badly in the accident that took your parents' lives. We've done a good job rebuilding you. Synthesized muscles, carbon-fiber enhanced bones. All sorts of interesting bits of technology."

She frowned for a moment, struggling to remember any accident. He had said the dental practice was bombed, but she could not remember that. There was nothing.

That was not to say that all of her memories were lacking. She knew things. She knew that she used to have parents. She knew that those parents loved her. She remembered her math lessons: addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, and even algebra. She remembered reading books, hundreds of them. She even knew how to hold, fire, reload and clean dozens of different firearms. She knew the best way to kill a man with a knife or a piano wire.

Then she blinked, as she realized that those were things she should not know. Those were things that she could not dredge up memories of having learned.

Finally, she considered other things that she did not know.

She did not know where she was, or anything else about this John White.

She did not know what her parents looked like. The address that they used to live at. What they did for a living. Nothing

Not even their names.

Then she realized she did not know her name.

She frowned, and glanced back at the man. "I... I have a few questions..."

"Go ahead," he replied, nodding his head as if he had expected that.

"Why do I know seventy-three different ways to kill a person with a knife? Why do I know how to clean a gun, when I've never held one before? And why can't I remember my parents or my name?"

The man looked at her for a moment, a frown flickering at the edges of his face.

"After the surgeries, we had to implant certain knowledge, as well as condition your mind and body to handle the cybernetics. There's also the fact that we expect you to perform some... jobs for us over the next few years."

"What type of jobs?"

"The type of jobs where knowing seventy-three ways to kill a man with a knife is helpful. Section two of the Social Welfare Agency is a branch of MI5. We're charged with protecting this nation, her people and the Queen. And we use every resource at our disposal. You, my dear, are one of those resources. You were going to die. We need assassins and spies, and unfortunately, our augmentation process only works on the young. You have to be less than 12 to accept the implants. It has a tendency to drive older recipients insane."

She watched him, an unknown feeling twisting in her stomach. They expected her to kill people.

"As for your parents and your name, well, some memory loss is expected."

She frowned, and glanced around. Her mind being affected by things sat ill at ease on her. She had always treasured her mind. It was what got her praised at school and at home.

Worse was the loss of the memory of her parents. She knew she had had them, but could not remember anything about them beyond the fact that they had loved her. She did not know if she should be happy that she could not remember them, or angry that she could not mourn them.

She sighed, as she realized there was nothing she could do about it now. After a few minutes, she looked back at the man. After the previous replies, she was almost hesitant to voice this question.

"And...and my name?"

He smiled at her again. "Your name is Hermione Granger."

* * *

**Dementor Stare!**

Harry stumbled against the ground. The Dementors were swarming around them, a harsh chill clutching at their breaths. He glanced and saw Sirius had crumpled into a small ball. Behind him, he could feel Hermione. She was shuddering with the cold.

He raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

Mist flickered to life. A brilliant white glow that dispersed in the wind.

A dementor was rushing straight towards him. Its arms were stretched out, as if it was coming in to give him a hug. Snarling, he slashed his wand downwards.

To his utter surprise, the creature's cloak was blown off.

He blinked.

He opened his mouth to say something. After a moment, he snapped it closed.

With his free hand, he scrubbed at an eye.

Then he blinked again.

Harry could admit to himself, that what he was seeing was not what he had expected. He had had expectations as to what was underneath a dementor's cloak. He had expected something dark. Something ugly. A desiccated body. An unholy amalgamation of bits and bobs of other things. Maybe even just a body composed of various creepy-crawly things-an unsteady form of bugs and rats, that would constantly shift and writhe. Anything really, just so long as it was dark, or ugly or demented.

He had not been expecting a pale, yellow bear.

And not a grizzly, or any other type of real, scary bear. There was no fangs or claws. Rather the Dementor looked quite a bit like a giant, six-foot tall teddy bear.

That was yellow.

With a white stomach.

A stomach that at one time had been decorated with a yellow sun, but it appeared that someone had placed a dirty, muddy handprint in the middle of said sun.

The dementor stopped its rush. Its feet turned inward, one of its paws went behind its back, and the other covered its nose. Which Harry noted was a pink heart.

Then it blushed.

He knew his mouth had dropped open, even as he wondered at how a giant six-foot teddy bear could blush. And how that blush could be visible on top of its yellow fur.

Another of the dementors stopped, and lowered its hood. It was frowning at the yellow one.

Though this one was brown. It too had a pink nose.

"Funshine Bear, we're supposed to be being mean right now!"

"But Tenderheart," the yellow bear replied. Its voice, soft and feminine. In fact, it kind of reminded him of Hermione's. "They knocked my cloak off."

"Well, ain't this just a great job we're doing." This came from a third one. It too, had its cloak undone, and Harry noted that it was blue. With a storm cloud on its stomach. But still a pink, heart-shaped nose.

"Be nice, Grumpy Bear."

"Budge off, Wish Bear."

Harry placed his hands over his ears, and started shaking. "No. No. No. No. No."

Hermione gasped as she looked around. Then she broke past him, and glomped onto the yellow one.

"I want this one!" Hermione yelled.

"Do we really have to suck her soul out? I mean see how much she cares?" Funshine asked Tenderheart.

Harry continued in his denials, as Sirius shuddered as a ball at his feet.

**A/N - I... well, I don't think there's much of anything that I can follow _that_ up with. I can say that I find the thought that Dementor's were just CareBears on 'Mean' missions highly funny. Originally, I was thinking that Dementors could have been natural prey for CareBears, but well, then I had this idea and it amused me. **


	23. Destined

**3 February, 1996, AIX Technologies Group, Florida, USA**

Justin Silus stared at his computer screen, watching the code and the diagnostic information flash back and forth. A frown marred his features for a moment, as he read the results.

Sighing, he twisted away from his computer, and walked over to a large table. He stared down at the surface, watching the map as it twisted and writhed, and once again wondered why he was getting inconsistent results.

A footstep to his side, drew his attention, and he lifted his head to glance at the man that stood there. Andrew Thrice was roughly the same height as Justin himself, but that was about the only similarity between the two. The other man was well built, clean shaven and had closely trimmed hair. Everything, even down to his shoes, screamed that this was a soldier.

Justin nodded in greeting, and murmured, "Commander."

"Mr. Silus," came the response, his companion's voice terse and harsh. "Is there a problem with the project? We were assured that it would be successful and beneficial."

Justin rubbed his face, and then gave a deep sigh. "Everything is working as expected, the first of the Protocols are coming online and even now we're seeing a reduction in gun violence as Mother brings sections of her awareness up and begins processing. The problem that I'm seeing is in a few... well... data points."

"How so?"

Justin reached down and pulled the map closer to them, pushing into England, until the screen displayed London. He pushed and pulled for a few moments, until a specific stretch of road was displayed.

"Here, see this part of London?"

Andrew nodded silently.

"Well, the thing is that I'm getting three sets of results for what this little alley off of Charing Cross road is. The monitors report that it's a simple alley with about fifty fake store fronts. Then there are two set of perception data being reported as well. The majority of the perception data reports that the alley doesn't exist, but there's a small percentage of the perception data that says that this is a network of three or four streets with full buildings and stores."

Andrew frowned for a moment. "Is this the only spot like this?"

Justin shook his head. "I wish, but no, it's just that I was reviewing the bots maintenance and diagnostics and data reports from Britain because they were the last to be ran through the reporting and maintenance cycle. Which meant that those anomalies were right on the tip of my tongue, so to speak. We've got an unknown castle and small hamlet in Scotland. Hundreds of houses that display similar results, as well as an entire miniature train platform at King's Cross that should not exist, and that's just Britain. These... spots are everywhere, across the world you have the exact same results being reported, with similar break down between the monitoring data and two distinct sets of perception data. Demographics show no relation to age, gender or race that accounts for this."

"Is this going to have any impact on the Protocols?"

"I don't see how, but I don't like not knowing what's causing this. As far as I can see, we really do have three distinct things that are being seen on those spots. What's being recorded electronically, what's seen by the majority of people, and then what's seen by this other group of people."

The commander nodded his head. "Well we're bringing the final nuclear reactor online now, and have allocated the output from all five reactors to Mother, not to mention the experimental geothermic power plant. I have the approval from the other Key Holders to fully activate Mother if there's no obvious issues found during today's meeting. We're just waiting on your go ahead now."

Justin looked down at the screen before him, his eyes flickering back and forth between the three different images of an obscure alley in downtown London. After a moment, he shook his head.

"I can't see anything wrong with that." He lifted his head, and glanced over at an odd contraption. He knew what this was. It was the original incubator for the nannites that made up Mother.

A microscopic machine and computer all in one. Individually useless but when placed together with billions of others, they became something else entirely.

This was the future.

That was the world's largest network.

That was Mother.

With each human, each animal, and even the trees and plants, individual nodes of this network. The end of crime and fear. Free and easy access to knowledge and learning for every person, because the entire network exists in that person's head.

"Mother?"

A voice responded from everywhere. It was feminine and warm, with a caring, gentle lilt to its words. "Yes, Justin."

"The Protocols are gold, and you are live. Thus, the Keys have spoken."

There was a pulse of something, and Justin assumed it was his overactive imagination, but he thought he felt reality, the world itself, shiver in something like delight.

**22 June, 1996, Elsewhere **\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

If Mother had a face, she knew it would be frowning.

In the theoretical 'back of her mind' which consisted primarily of tertiary processor sets that were used for long-running and routine processes, a timer pulsed. An indicator that another millisecond had passed. Mother quickly cataloged every species, and the count of their living members. Billions of documented animals, and hundreds upon hundreds more that did not exist in her databases. Creatures and animals, some of which could only be found referenced in the mythology and fantasy sections of her terminals and data stores.

Her primary processor sets on the other hand were focused on something entirely different. She, and Mother much like her creators, always thought of herself as a female, was concerned about the anomalous data points.

The Protocols denied her the ability to directly interact with the thought processes and the memories of individuals, but Mother knew something was wrong.

There was something that was different in different parts of her matrix.

She knew for a fact that some places were literally bigger on their inside than their outside. She had scan data from both the manual transmissions, as well as a 100% return rate on the perspective transmissions. Oddly, those perspective transmissions, were the same data set as the third data set found in conjunction with the anomalous data points discovered by Key Silus, and discussed with Key Thrice on 3 February, 1996, or 6.632988092 minutes prior to full activation of the Protocols.

She also knew for a fact that, the laws of physics denied the ability for something to be bigger inside than the space it took up physically.

It was a paradox.

One which the entire subset of nodes seemed to experience.

Worse, those nodes did not seem to be impacted by the combustion protocols. She had witnessed a fight between a group of adults and teenagers in one of the paradox buildings, and saw them flinging balls of energy at one another from an organic source.

An unfamiliar energy, which her protocols were still attempting to understand.

She also knew that this energy was affecting and changing some of her nodes. She was getting echoes, flickers of some other existence in her network. An overlay, something like a separate network that ran over her own nodes and connections.

This was something that appeared to be hidden from most people. Something that, based upon the altercation she had witnessed, could be a danger to the majority of her nodes.

And with that thought, the Protocols were activated.

Decision trees where turned on and followed, a series of Bayesian networks and simple logic trees which raised conflicting declarations within the Protocols. With the conflicts, Mother's heuristic systems came up, and focused on the start point, as well as the conflict which the logic trees produced. She then introduced the problems to her Hopfield network.

Options were weighed.

Some discarded. Some chosen. And then weighed again. And again. And Again.

Finally, Mother decided.

She knew what she needed to do in order to reconcile the anomalies. She knew what she had to do, what steps had to occur in order to resolve the paradoxes.

Mother brought her focus onto her nodes. Guiding them. Ordering them. Having them build something.

Something, which even she did not recognize.

Something new.

And in Mother's tertiary processors, a timer went off. Another millisecond had passed, and it was time once again to perform a census on all the animals. Those processors noted that an unexpected 0.001893827123% of the dinoflagellates had died in the Pacific Northwest in the previous cycle. This was an unusually high number, in comparison to previous cycles, and a possible indicator of a fish die-off in the region. The anomaly was raised to the secondary processors to determine if a fish die-off was contra-indicated at this point in time or not.

**24 June, 1996, Hogwarts, Scotland **\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry Potter stepped out of the main door of Hogwarts, blinking in the bright summer sunshine. He exhaled a heavy breath as he considered the past few years that he had spent at the school. Meeting and having friends, the Dragon, the experience in the forbidden Forest and of course his experience fighting Voldermort on defense of the stone. The accusations of being dark. Hermione petrified and then fighting the basilisk. The dementors and fighting with Hermione over a broomstick of all things. Then the highs and lows at the end of the year. That bright moment when he thought he had escaped from the Dursleys. Thought that he would have a family to live with, that he would be able to be somewhere he was actually wanted for the summer.

Even now the fact that that possibility of family was stripped from him ached in his chest. Settled deeply there in an pain that tore at his stomach and heart. And was only counterpointed by that midnight ride with Hermione squeezed tight against him as they rode to rescue Sirius.

For a moment, he wondered if he could get her to go flying with him on his broom. If she would again hold her body flush against his, and her arms wrapped tightly around him.

A frown flickered across his face as he pushed away those thoughts. He knew that he could not attempt to court Hermione. First, because he had an evil maniac intent on killing everyone he loved as well as himself. Secondly, he was just the Freak. The Other. He was utterly and totally unworthy of Hermione. Outclassed by her in every way possible. And finally, because Ron liked her. He could not lose his first friend, the thought hurt. Almost as much as the thought of anyone else courting Hermione.

Again, with effort, he banished those thoughts. Pushed away all concerns and impure thoughts of Hermione to the back of his mind. He also banished his ruminations on his previous years at Hogwarts. Those were dark thoughts, and not needed for this, one of the last few days of peace before being shipped off and away; hidden in his prison at Privett Drive. And above all, he did not want to start thinking about Sirius and Harry's own failure at the Ministry again.

He glanced around and saw Hermione and a few other students standing by the edge of the lake. His heart thudded hard in his chest as he saw her. He watched, as she lifted her head, and then waved at him. Even from this distance, he knew that she was smiling at him. He could _feel_ it. Grinning to himself he returned her wave, and then walked down towards her and their group of friends.

The sounds of summer and the joys and exhilaration of the time between exams and the train ride home, fluttered across his awareness.

As he neared where the others had gathered, a glitter caught his attention. He stopped and looked towards the ground. A frown crossed his face as he saw the odd thing as it lay there. He knelt down and watched it for a moment, confusion etched on his face.

It was a small dark blue device that appeared to be made of some type of plastic and was oval shaped but with odd indentations as part of it making it almost a bowtie shape. A circle took up most of the central portion. Symbols were etched into the plastic framing the blank LCD screen which was the source of the glitter that had originally attracted his attention. There was a large button on the left side and then there were two smaller buttons on the right. Finally, there was either a small antenna or a push toggle on the side above the large button.

Familiarity pitched at the back of his thoughts. He both recognized the device and did not at the same time. It was a disconcerting feeling of disconnect that did not sit well and twisted his chest and stomach.

Hesitantly he reached out towards the device. As expected from its appearance it felt like plastic. His fingers closed around it and he was somewhat surprised at how warm and comforting it felt in his hand. As if it had been made for him and him alone.

Straightening, he continued to watch the device wondering what it was doing here at Hogwarts. Absently, he noted that Hermione was calling his name.

He was about to respond to her when the screen flickered to life.

A symbol glowed on the screen. It reminded him of the sun; it was a dot, surrounded by a circle and then triangles making another circle at the outermost level.

Suddenly, the triangles began moving, spinning around the central circle.

Harry was mesmerized. Caught in the movements.

He could feel energy flowing around him, through him. Energy that was a part of him, as integral as magic, but also energy that was separate from him. Something other. Odd. Different. He felt the power cascade through his chest, crashing against his magic.

It seemed to growl in his heart and head, and suddenly it was focused in his hand.

The hand that held that odd device.

It began shining brightly in his hand. A maelstrom of energy that lit up his palm like one of Hermione's bluebell flames.

It pulsed, and a beam of that light shot into the heavens. It was brilliantly white at its core, but the edges were a orangish-red color. The shaft of light glowed brighter than even the sun; it stood out in stark contrast to everything other source of light around them as it pierced the clouds that had hung over them; appearing to stab the sky itself.

Those clouds writhed around in angry, tortured movements.

There was another pulse, and then another stream of light appeared. This was a ribbon of energy which wrapped around the main shaft of light. Across this ribbon ran icon after icon. Things that looked like numbers or stars or hearts and suns.

These were glyphs that he did not recognize, that he did not know. But at the same time, they were familiar as well. Some part of him knew what they were. What they meant. It was some part of him that lived in the back parts of his mind; in that place where the line between thought and instinct and memory was thin if not non-existent. Those symbols seemed to worm beneath his consciousness.

And as he stared at that beam of light, as he watched the pulsing energy, and the twirling ribbon and the symbols that flowed across it, words whispered across his mind. Courage. Hatred. Hope. Despair. Friendship. Envy. Knowledge. Ignorance. Patience. Wrath. Love. Indifference. Light. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. Darkness.

Everyone watched as the clouds darkened and started shifting around the light, becoming a whirlpool of energy. Darkness stole the sunshine as a strong wind whipped up it of nowhere. It tore at his clothes, and whipped his hair about.

Those angry clouds appeared closer and lower. Almost within reach.

Lightning ripped from the clouds, striking a nearby tree, its energy a bright actintic flash, a sizzle wash of power and nature and death.

The ribbon collapsed, exploding away from the shaft of light in a spray of pixelized bits of energy and light.

Some part of his brain noted that the energy fell on himself and his friends. Those small squares of light would fall onto a person and be absorbed, soaking into their skin in a flare of something.

A new symbol suddenly hung in the middle of the shaft of light. It could have been a sideways eight, or an infinity symbol had the lines met in the middle on both sides. As it stood, it was two small balls that had a line wrapping around, and connecting them.

Those words whispered in his head again. This time, repeating the same thing over and over again.

_**Destined**_.

Then the clouds touched the earth and the shaft of light disappeared. For a moment, that infinity symbol hung in the air, and then it twisted. It seemed to rip itself apart as well as form itself into something whole. The air around it writhed.

He shifted his attention fully away from sky and looked towards Hermione. She was only a handful of steps away, having obviously come closer to him at some point.

There was another bolt of lightning, and suddenly the sound of shattering glass drew his attention back to the sky. Where the symbol had been, was now a rent. A massive tear which marred the sky. A hole, a rend, in the fabric of the world itself. A wrongness that appeared and felt oddly right and natural.

Deep in his chest there was a pull; an almost compulsion against his mind, his magic and even his body which dragged him towards that tear, even as the wind's ferocity doubled in strength.

He heard screams as the wind writhed around him, grabbing at him and every part of him. Twisting at him, and with him. Trying to help that pull move him up and towards the hole in reality.

The wind doubled in strength again. And then again.

Harry stumbled slightly, and then glanced once more towards Hermione. He could see her mouth moving, calling his name, but the sounds were effectively stolen from him.

A strong gust of wind slashed across and between them and seemed to catch her. Lifted her. It attempted to pull her away from him. Take her away from him.

Harry screamed her name as she was pulled up and away. Her hand stretched towards him, as her mouth again moved in the motion of his name. Here brown eyes were wide with shock and fear, and acting on instinct Harry lunged forward.

His hand slipped into hers, and their combined wait lowered them slightly.

But the wind just turned stronger.

It lifted him as well, and he felt his body twisting sideways; being pushed up and to the right in an arc by the wind.

He pulled Hermione closer, wrapping her in a protective embrace. He felt her arms wrap around him and a moment later her face was tucked into the crook of his neck.

Energy and light pulsed again.

And then they touched the hole in the sky.

The power filled him to overflowing. It was nurturing and comforting, and at the same time it was harsh and demanding. Overbearing. Overfilling. Consuming.

It flowed within him, and through him. He could feel it tearing at the very fabric of everything. Including himself. His magic flared, but was merely bled off from him. His body and mind and magic were pulled in different directions, tugged to and fro. Stretched and compressed.

Another pulse of energy and light, and then darkness descended upon him.


	24. Destined pt 2

**Destined - The Birth of...**

* * *

**Unknown Date, 1996, Somewhere**

He ached.

That was the only way he could describe the feeling, just a bone deep ache. His back. His arms. Everything just ached. Well, almost everything. The exception of everything aching was something which was warm and comfortable and was curled up tightly against his side and wrapped in his arms.

Slowly he opened his eyes and glanced down watching the mass of familiar brown hair. He inhaled deeply, reveling in her scent and closeness. Unknowable feelings squirmed in his stomach and chest.

Pushing those feelings aside he softly whispered her name,"Hermione."

She jolted awake, her whole body tensing for a moment before she relaxed back into his chest and released a deep sigh.

"Hermione," he whispered again. "Are you alright?"

He felt her nod into his chest. "I'm fine, Harry."

"That's good. Not that I'm not perfectly happy with you in my arms like this, but I think we need to get up, and figure out exactly where we are."

She was muttering something under her breath as she slowly detached herself from his side. Once that was completed, they both sat up and looked around.

They were at the edge of a beach, but still in the woods that apparently surrounded it. Gleaming white sand dropped down to blue water. A steady breeze came from the water, which carried a heavy scent of salt and fish. The sun was barely above the horizon, and burned white hot. Its reflection was scattered across the gentle surf in a thousand sparkles of light and fire.

Harry blinked.

This was something outside of his experience. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for a place such as this.

A warm arm wrapped around one of his, and then he felt Hermione lean her head onto his , he tucked his head to the side, resting it on top of hers.

"I've never really seen the sea before," he muttered.

Hermione's head shifted slightly, in an approximation of a nod. "This is more like the beaches of southern France than the ones you find in Britain."

"It's beautiful," he said in a whisper, a feeling of awe resting lightly against him. "I... I think I could probably stay here on this beach forever."

He felt her chuckle slightly. "I'd be more than willing to stay here with you, but sooner or later I'd want a book or two."

Harry laughed.

As the laughter faded, he heard a snap from the woods behind him.

Prior to that noise, he had not been paying much attention to anything but Hermione wrapped around his arm, and the water in front of him.

With that noise, he twisted his body, to look at the woods, his eyes scanning for the source of the disturbance.

The woods almost looked normal. There were hundreds of trees and a dense cluster of bushes. He did not recognize any of the plants though, but figured he would not since Hermione said the water did not look like it did in Britain. Dark shadows hid everything beyond a few meters.

An uneasy feeling settled across his neck, and Harry quickly stood up. He watched the woods, and held out a hand towards Hermione to help her stand as well. A familiar sense of foreboding crashed against him; that same feeling he had when the portkey had dropped him and Cedric into that graveyard.

"Somethings watching us," he whispered as Hermione stood beside him.

Part of him noted that her eyes were wider, as if she was trying to figure out what type of trees she was seeing, and failing to do so.

There was no sound, no flash of color to draw his attention, but he noticed a slight disturbance in the brush heading towards him.

When it broke through the last of leaves, it appeared to be just a ball of wind. Almost invisible, but clearly a sphere of some sort.

Acting on instinct, he grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the side as he moved out of the ball's path.

With an almost whistle, it slashed past him, and they both turned to watch it hit the water where it seemed to explode.

"I've never seen that spell before," Hermione said, her eyes still wide.

Harry nodded as he pulled out his wand. "Neither have I, and I'd rather not get hit with it."

More sounds and movement, and the bushes parted to reveal an animal of some type. It was short, roughly three feet high where it stood on its hind legs, looking just like some type of miniature dinosaur. Its skin was a bright pink and its long tail, swished behind it.

The creature's chest swelled, and then it leaned forward slightly opening its mouth to reveal long sharp teeth. A carnivore's teeth.

Harry blinked in surprise, and missed the bubble that emerged from the creature's mouth.

At least until it slammed into his chest.

Pain erupted through his body, and his breath exploded out of him. He found himself tumbling backwards into the sand as stars flared across his vision.

Hermione's scream of his name, echoed across the beach even as he struggled to stand and regain his breath.

"Reducto!" Hermione shouted again.

Harry opened his eyes, expecting to see the ball of energy flying towards the creature.

He blinked in surprise, when he realized there was nothing.

"Reducto!" She shouted again, her wand slashing through the movement.

And again there was no flare of magic. No light of a released spell. Nothing

Then one of those balls of solid air slammed against Hermione's chest. She screamed in pain as she was flung backwards. Harry finally managed to get to his feet. He darted forward, intending to physically beat the creature.

As he neared, the thing twisted around, and Harry felt the tail slam into him hard. The impact lifted him off his feet, and flung him to the side, back towards the edge of the beach near some bushes.

He landed with a loud crash, as he skittered into the bushes, until he was stopped by something fuzzy and soft.

He opened his eyes, to find himself looking at a small ball of black fur. It had two cat-like ears, and large blue, pupil-less eyes that glowed slightly. But no legs or other type of limbs.

He blinked.

It blinked in return.

"Hello," it chirped in a happy, cheerful voice.

"Hello," he mumbled in shock, even as he noted that there was no mouth for it to speak out of.

"I'm Botamon. Who're you?"

"Harry."

The thing bounced forward and seemed to sniff him, and then giggled.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of sand, and Harry turned and looked towards the creature that was still advancing towards him. He glanced around, and saw that Hermione was still on the ground, close to the water's edge.

He flicked his wand, and shouted "Stupefy!"

He could feel the energy flowing through him. Could feel it gathering in the wand. Then he even felt it release.

But the spell did not emerge from his wand.

Botamon giggled, and bounced forward.

"Peiu!" it seemed to yell, and a small bubble flew out of Botamon and slapped into the larger one.

It stumbled backwards slightly, and then growled. It was a harsh, angry sound.

"Peiu! Peiu!"

A groan attracted his attention, and he looked over to see Hermione lifting her head. He scrambled up from where he was sitting and darted across and knelt down next to him.

"'Mione, you okay?"

She nodded. "My magic's not working. How're you?"

"I'm alive, and apparently made a new friend. And my magic's not working either."

There was another explosion of sand, and a high pitched squeal.

Pain flared across his chest, and Harry twisted to see the black ball of fur flying through the air. "Botamon!"

Harry raced to Botamon's side, Hermione next to him. He knelt down, and poked at the furry thing.

"Botamon? Are you alright?"

There was the blink, of blue eyes, and that cheerful voice replied. "I've been better."

Harry nodded, "Stay behind me, and I'll see what I can do to stop this thing."

Then he stood, up and once more turned towards the pink creature.

Absently, he heard Hermione gasp. A glance over his shoulder showed that she was kneeling next to another of the legless creatures. This one was pure white with dark eyes and kitten ears.

Spinning in the air between Hermione and the legless cat was a glowing crystal shard. White light shone in its center, and its edges where a dark red. A symbol that kind of resembled a heart was etched on it.

He watched as Hermione reached out and grasped the crystal. There was a flare of energy, and suddenly she was holding a device that looked like the one that Harry had found that started this mess. Except hers was red.

A vibration against his side drew his attention, and he reached down and grabbed what was there. As soon as his hand touched it, he knew that it was the same device that he had picked up from the ground.

He looked down at the screen and saw that it was flashing with the image of Botamon.

Then the word "Digivolve" flashed across the screen.

"Digivolve?" he read out loud.

The device beeped, and he could feel a slight draw against his magic. The screen suddenly flared to life, and Harry instinctively twisted its face away from his.

He unknowingly pointed it towards Botamon; and as soon as it was, a beam of light flashed out and struck the black furry creature.

Botamon seemed to tense for a moment, before yelling out in its happy, cheerful voice, "Botamon digivolve to Koromon!"

Energy flared across the space between Harry and Botamon, and the light grew even brighter.

The small creature seemed to grow larger, his body twisting and changing. There was another flare of light. When it died, something different was sitting in Botamon's place.

It was still a round ball, but this one was pink and smooth rather than black and fuzzy. Additionally, it was twice as big and had a mouth that was displaying a big smile; a smile complete with a handful of sharp, pointed teeth. Large blue eyes with a distinct pupil glittered, and the cat ears had turned into something like long ribbons that flapped on the breeze.

"Botamon?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Nope, I'm Koromon now," the creature replied, in that same happy, cheerful voice.

Harry blinked, and shook his head.

Koromon bounced forward, and seemed to swell. Then it released a ball of flame.

The fireball flew across and slammed into the miniature dinosaur.

From his left, came a ball of air, similar to the ones that Botamon used. He glanced that way, and saw the plant thing that Hermione had found was bouncing forward and sending out a stream of the bubbles.

Another bolt came from the dinosaur, and slammed hard against the ground near Koromon. Sand exploded, as Koromon yelped.

Hermione's voice yelled out, "Digivolve!"

Another of those cheerful voices called out, "Snowbotamon digivolve to Nyaromon!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see another flare of light, this one with a reddish tint. The small bear cub thing shifted and grew larger. Its fur darkened, turned orange with brown tiger stripes. The bear cub ears twisted becoming cat like, and a long tail twirled out from its back.

A stream of pink bubbles erupted from it, larger and brighter than the ones it shot earlier. They slammed against the dinosaur creature, exploding into multi-colored blobs as the creature wrenched its head away from the attack.

Harry shifted back to look towards Koromon again, and watched in amazement as Koromon spat another blob of fire. This one caught the dinosaur in the mouth as it was drawing in a breath to attack.

The creature stumbled back with a cry of pain. Its whole body twitched and then flickered. It froze in position like a hung computer game. There was another of those odd flickerings where it seemed to stop existing for moments before reappearing. Glowing white lines slithered across its body creating a grid of glowing lines.

The glowing lines pulsed, and the squares that had made up of the grid expanded outwards slightly, and then they began to drift up and away. As they did so, they began flickering. A moment later, they had all flickered away, and not returned.

In the space of a few seconds, the entire creature had disappeared in this way. In its place was a handful of squares of light.

Harry walked over and looked down, frowning at the squares.

Koromon bounced over and looked down as well.

"Just some junk data left over from the deletion," Koromon said, with a tone of voice that Harry knew would have been accompanied by a shrug had he said it.

Or had Harry knew what Koromon was talking about in the first place.

He glanced towards Hermione who was holding the cat thing. For a moment, he wondered if she was just lucky enough to find the only cat monster or if it was some other effect by whatever magic brought them here.

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice holding a tense confusion. "This is Snowbotamon. Snowbotamon, this is Harry."

"Hi Harry! But Hermione was saying wrong. I'm Nyaromon now." Nyaromon said in one of those cheerful, pipping voices.

"Uhm, hello," Harry said in reply. He felt distinctly odd and uneasy in talking with whatever these things were.

Koromon bounced towards them, humming an odd jaunty song as he did so.

Harry scrubbed at his face for a moment. "This place is beginning to get to me. Our magic's not working, and we have talking cats and balls of... pink, that can shoot something, and then dinosaurs. I have no idea what these... things are."

Koromon laughed. A sound of cheerful, tinkling bells. "We're digimon! More importantly, we're your friends!"

Harry looked at the thing, and blinked. He raised a hand and rubbed at his scar.

"Do you know where we are?" he asked Koromon.

"We're on File Island, of course."

"File Island?" Hermione said, her voice still held that odd tenseness. "I've never heard of any place named that before."

Again, Koromon seemed to shrug invisible shoulders. "I know it's not as big a place as Server, but it's where we're at."

Harry sighed, as he again scrubbed his face. Then he focused his attention on Hermione. "I know I saw some of the others being picked up as well, do you remember seeing anyone else?"

Hermione shook her head. "I know that Neville, Ron, Ginny and Luna were there with us, when that wind picked us up. But I don't remember much after you grabbed my hand."

Nodding, Harry looked around, and then pointed in one direction. "Well, I say we head this way. I'd like to see if we can find any of the others before we try and figure out a way to get home."

Hermione glanced the way Harry pointed, and then focused on him again before nodding her head. "That sounds like as good a plan as any."

Together, they started walking along the edge of the beach. Water on their right with the woods on their left. Besides each of them, their digimon bounced along following.

* * *

**AN - Well, I hope everyone knows exactly what the crossover for this is now. I do know that part 1 was somewhat bare of details. Though the concept of calling a world-wide, omnipresent intelligent network 'Mother' is from the "Council War" series of books. Truth be told, that bit got tossed in there because I needed a catalyst for the digital side of things which the digimon represent.**

**Now, with that out of the way, I do want to bring up something left in a review by a 'Guest.' **

**This will probably be a bit rambling as I'm typing it pretty much stream of consciousness without any downtime for review. Additionally, it really doesn't have much of anything to do with active storytelling. More along the lines of thoughts and concepts ABOUT the story...**

**Anyhow, this Guest went on to describe the previous chapter as 'one of the dumbest move in hp fanfics' since there was an aspect of technology involved. Said Guess then went on and discussed how comic fans 'cannot separate magic from tech.'**

**Am I a comics fan? Yup. There's two previous tidbits that borrow heavily from comics (E is for Extinction &amp; Shaman). One is almost entirely non-tech based, while the other heavily touches on tech. But both have their basis in solid speculative fiction principles.**

**But truth be told, comics had nothing to do with the previous chapter, nor this one. ****_Destined_**** is a crossover between HP &amp; Digimon, with a touch of Council Wars thrown in for flavor. The device Harry found is described as a series 1 digivice, and the vortex that sucked up our protagonists was straight out of Season 1, Episode 1 of _Digimon_. By definition _Digimon_ has technology involved in it-but that technology is used in a ****_very_**** fantastical, almost magical, way. **

**But, there's something that the Guest is... let's say misguided in their response here. And that's the existence of a hard divide between magic and technology in the HP universe. The only line I remember from the books regarding tech and magic is Hermione's in the fourth year about 'too much magic in the air' which is obtuse and derived entirely from "_Hogwarts: A History_" as opposed to functional and rational exploration of technology use in magic saturated environments. Additionally, this appears to be something unique to Hogwarts as the Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley and 12 Grimmauld Place are smack dab in the middle of London-and the surrounding technology is not impacted at all. **

**Personally, I'm of the firm belief that it's a specific ward at Hogwarts designed to loosen (if not destroy) the muggleborns innate use of and dependence upon technology (think, if you want to send someone a message do you reach for your phone/tablet or a pad of paper to write out a letter?).**

**But that's only half the issue. **

**The other half is that simply by dint of being who I am, I _have_ to approach Harry Potter from the role of technology. **** I wrote my first program on a Commodore 64 when I was in the 2nd grade. Even at 11 years old, I'd be hard pressed to decide between technology and magic. To be honest, making that C64 do what I told it to do ****_was_**** magic to 8 year old me. **

**Today, as a nigh-upon 40 year old programmer, I'm positive which option I'd chose. There's no competition. I am a technologist. It's what I do, and a big part of my personality and outlook on life is built around that concept . ****Technology is a factor in our world. It's a factor in the 'muggle' world of Harry Potter. The 'muggle' world that a number of Harry's formative years were in. Could you honestly give up your smartphone and game nights and ipad in order to wave a wand, and read books under candle light-or at best gaslights? **

**Like I said, for me, there would be no competition. **


	25. A Purpose for Controlled Violence

**A Purpose for Controlled Violence**

A young man stood at what appeared to be the edge of the world.

In reality it was a cliff; windswept and smelling of fresh cut grass and the salt of the sea. This was the edge of the land of his birth, where the bottom of his nation tumbled out into the ocean. Off to his left, the cliff continued higher and higher; the bright, white chalk of which they were made glittered brightly in the rising sun. Further up that hill there was a red and white light house, its light having finally going out with the morning taking full hold.

A stiff, early morning breeze tugged at his clothes and his black hair, attempting to ruffle his already messy mop.

Dark sunglasses hid brilliant green eyes, and just above them was a livid red scar. Despite the fact that he had that scar for nearly all of his twenty-two years, it still appeared as if he had been inflicted with it the day before.

An absent-minded habit caused him to rub at the scar, trying to massage the low level ache that was always present within it.

His name is Harry James Potter.

When he was eleven he learned that the witches and wizards of Magical Britain called him the Boy-Who-Lived. Unless they were Death Eaters, then he was referred to as either 'You' or the 'Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die.'

These days, those same wizards tended to call him the Man-Who-Conquered.

After all, he had done it. He had defeated Tom Riddle and his gang of insane followers. He had sacrificed nearly everything in the battle.

His hope. His innocence.

And his love.

A love that he had held for so long, and with such devotion, that he had not even realized that he was in love with her. It was just a part of who he was.

The same way she had always been-at least since that first Halloween.

Even now, years after her burial, that pain ate as his soul. It gnawed at the marrow of his bones, and was a constant ache, a misery, that refused to die, and refused to settle. It was always there, his constant companion.

He had felt it when he had told Ginny that they had no future together.

He had felt it, when he had went to Australia and found Hermione's parents, and returned their memories.

He had gone down there, and spent weeks hunting them, all to tell them the horrible news that their daughter was dead. Hermione deserved that. She needed to be mourned by the two people who loved her as much as he had. After the initial shock was over, he then spent hours telling them how Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and Draco had paid for particular death. Those three were the only deaths that he had caused that did not haunt him at night. Despite the days of torture and pain they went through at his hands, he did not feel any grief or guilt over killing them.

He sighed, as he looked once more at the cliffs. The White Cliffs of Dover.

For centuries they had stood as the sentinel of the Isles. Their protectors and guardians against invasion from the continent. A white shield that shone with their protection.

The first thing most saw of England when travelling from the continent, and the last thing others saw as they traveled from England.

At times Harry felt like that. He felt like the cliffs of the magical world. Alone, and held in awe by a populace that he ultimately did not care for or about.

As he stood there, he wondered what he should do with the remaining balance of his life. He was a powerful wizard, and he was still young. He had at least a hundred and fifty years of life ahead of him. A hundred and fifty years of surviving without ever hearing her voice again. Of never seeing her again.

It was a burning ache deep in his chest.

Sighing, he looked down at the foot of the cliff. Watching the waves break against the rocks that line the base.

Suddenly a weight of magic pressed down against him. A binding magic; an attempt to keep him in one place; there was a distinct taste to the magics, a taste that was always present in wand-based anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards. A harsh, metallic tinge that instantly set his teeth on edge and raised the hackles on his neck.

Slowly, he turned away from the water, and looked back out over the field behind him.

The moment stretched out; taut with intent and tension. Finally, there was the shimmer-flash of disillusionment charms being dispelled. As the flash died away, it left three wizards and a witch revealed. They stood in a half-circle around in front of him, covering him, surrounding him without impacting on their own field of fire.

They were dressed in the brown, dragon-skin robes of full aurors, and their faces were etched with grim looks.

Harry recognized them all. Knew every one of them from his years at Hogwarts.

Gabriel Tate. A Hufflepuff from the year beneath his. On his far right.

Viola Richmond. A Slytherin, also from the year beneath his. On his far left.

Adrian Pucey. Another Slytherin although he was from three years ahead of Harry's own class. He stood next to Viola.

And finally, Harry's eyes fell on the person who stood directly in front of him.

Ron.

Ron, the inept.

Ron the jealous.

Ron the coward.

Ron... the traitor.

Harry locked eyes with his former friend, and felt that familiar cold rage coil deep in his chest. That harsh anger and hate that had rested in his chest ever since Ron had led them all to the snatchers. That anger and hate that had simmered in his chest, directed towards his former friend ever since that moment when the boy had handed over Harry and Hermione to the Malfoys after abandoning them on the hunt.

Ran had given them up in order to save his own life. He had traded Hermione for himself.

Harry felt it was an utterly unfair trade.

Worse, the git had turned up at the final battle, claiming to have been fighting for the light the entire time. Harry had already killed the Death Eaters responsible for her death, and no one had believed Harry when he tried to tell them how Ron had betrayed them all.

After all, Harry had a history of telling lies against old pureblood families.

Ron's voice came out in a slow drawl. "Harry, I'm sorry, but we've been ordered to bring you in. It's been determined that you're to be charged with ending the Malfoy family."

His eyes flickered across the other three for a moment. Tate and Richmond looked a bit sick to be standing there. They were scared of him, as most of the younger years had been.

The look on Pucey's face was confusing though. The boy had never been scared of Harry, and was actually rather friendly for a Slytherin quidditch player, and had a tendency to actually play fairly in the annual Gryffindor/Slytherin matches back during school. He obviously did not want to be here, but was anyways.

Finally, Harry's attention settled back onto Ron. "Tell me Ron, how goes the investigation into Hermione's death? Have you found any justice for her?"

He shook his head. "Her death has been attributed to the Snatchers, and its been determined that no more of them can be found, so her case is closed."

The hate that flared in his chest caught him off guard slightly. It had been a long time since he had felt _anything_ that strongly. That hate was a burning thing, an overwhelming surge of emotions that caused his magic to react.

A harsh wind blew up around them, whipping the grasses on top of the cliff and Harry's hair into a frenzy.

He took a step forward, knowing that his eyes had started glowing. They always did when his magic rushed through his body like this.

When he spoke, his voice was a low hiss.

"Ron, you forget that I know the truth. I was there when you turned us over to the snatchers, and it is only because of the concern and care I held for your parents that I have not hunted you down prior to this and killed you. And now... _now_ you have the gall to come before me, and say that those death eater shitbags are going to get away with killing her?! That I'm going to be brought up on charges for what I did during the war? That I'm to be arrested for avenging her?"

The other three aurors raised their wands, and took a step back from him.

All but Ron. He stepped forward. "Har-"

Harry's raised hand cut off his words with a gurgle.

A pulse of magic, and Harry found that he had his hands wrapped around Ron's throat and was squeezing.

"Potter!" Pucey's voice rang out, drawing Harry's attention. "Stop, you don't want to kill an auror. Please."

Harry released his grip slightly, but not enough to allow Ron to get a good breath.

"Pucey, I always liked you back in school. You played fair, as did the seeker during my first year. So, before this continues, let's have a bit of a chat, alright?"

Pucey nodded his head slowly. "We can do that."

"You know, back in school, this numbfuck, had me convinced that being Slytherin was being dark, and that dark was evil. As if we're all comic book characters. His words, coupled with Darco's impressive ability to be an arse, had me quite convinced on the utter depraved stupidity and evilness of all Slytherins. Made me beg the hat to not put me there even."

As always, when he revealed that bit of information, Pucey's eyes widened. "We could have had you as our seeker and it's Weasley's and Malfoy's fault we didn't?"

He could not help himself, Harry had to laugh at that comment. After a moment, he got his amusement under control again. "Yes. Now, as I was saying, I've spent the years since the war thinking about all sorts of things. And one of those things that I've thought about is the nature of light and dark. Both in reality, and in how its perceived in the magical world."

Pucey frowned slightly. "I don't understand, Potter."

"That's the thing, most wizards don't understand, and most wizards wouldn't. That's because most wizard's don't think about it. We think whatever the school, or the ministry or the Headmaster says is dark, why that must be dark. Of course, anything that the ministry or the school or the Headmaster says is light, well, Dumbledore shits rainbows and unicorns so by Merlin, that must be light!"

Tate actually snickered slightly. Though his wand remained firmly trained on Harry. He felt that he had to give the little 'Puff sheer points for nerve and gumption.

"Most people will tell you that causing pain is dark. But that's not true. Sometimes pain is used for healing or teaching. Some people will tell you that doing certain types of magics is dark: blood magic or necromancy. Sure, some of that stuff is pure black magic and is designed to corrupt people, and turn them into rabid dogs. Yet, I know for a fact that Dumbledore played around with blood magic."

He laughed at Richmond's gasp. Apparently there was at least one Slytherin who had been all about the cult of Dumbledore.

Pucey was less impressed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he did. The Headmaster was technically an old family pureblood."

Harry nodded his head slowly. "Yes. Well, I've come to realize something about Dark. Dark is not a set of spells or even actions. It's a set of intent. Wanting to keep a child in an abusive environment, just to be able to mold him into a weapon? That's a dark act. Willingly giving up the friends who loved and trusted you, just to save your own skin? That's a dark act. Running a ritual to enhance your own power or whatever, at the sacrifice of a young, virginal girl? That's dark. Standing outside a home, that you know a child is being abused in, and doing nothing but watch? That's dark. Do you see the running theme?"

The other three aurors shook their heads. Ron gurgled slightly.

"It's simple. It's the intent to harm others, or allow others to be harmed just for yourself. I caught Flint doing one of those-and killed him for it. Dumbledore and the 'light' did the others. During the war, I hurt and killed scores of people. But that wasn't dark, because I wasn't doing it because I got my jollies off on it. Does that make sense?"

The others nodded, as Pucey spoke. "Yes, that makes a lot of sense, Potter."

"That's great that you all understand that, because I was here at the cliffs this morning to make a choice. I was faced with three possibilities, and was deciding which I should do. My first option, was to throw myself from the cliff in an effort to see Hermione now, rather than 150 years from now. My second option was to apparate over to France and just disappear from the magical world. Either just roam the world, or go muggle in Australia or the Colonies."

Harry sighed as the pros and cons for each option flickered through his mind. At least until Tate's voice drew him out of his thoughts.

"That was two, you said you had three options."

"Yes, I did," Harry said with a slight chuckle. Then he began speaking. His words began soft and conversationally, but ended in a harsh growl.

"My third option was to raze magical Britain to the ground. To destroy all those pretty wards and buildings and what not that you all huddle behind trying to keep the world the way it was two hundred years ago, and believe that you're oh so much better than the mundanes. Destroy the ministry and Hogwarts; salt the fields on which the purebloods sit in their pretty little mansions. Destroy it all, letting the muggles know all about us, and giving all the first gens out there the chance to learn magic without the hassles of death and destruction at the hands of small, empty minded bigots."

Harry focused on the three aurors again. Noticing the pale, terrified sheen that covered their faces.

After a moment, Pucey shook his head slightly. "You wouldn't destroy Hogwarts. Not with the kids there."

Harry smiled, his voice once again soft and even without the harsh overtones. "You were listening, and even learning. But you've got to remember, none of the children are allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the hols. Now, as I was saying, I was here to make a choice. Was actually leaning towards jumping if truth be told."

Harry snorted with mild amusement, letting his gaze flicker between them.

"And then you lot showed up. Gave me the impetuous to come to a decision. Maybe it's just a random confluence of events, but I know what I need to do. And I have all four of you coming out here to thank for making the decision."

Harry smiling slightly, fell silent. A tense thing, alive with anticipation and malice; like a coiled viper ready and eager to strike.

Richmond's voice was tiny and soft and oh so hesitant as she asked the question. "And... and what choice did you make?"

He focused on the girl, pining her in place with his stare. She swallowed hard and Harry noticed a slight tremor in her wand arm.

"Oh, I'm going to destroy the wizarding world. Probably kill most of the purebloods, any were that has infected another human, and won't be surprised at having to off quite a number of half-bloods and first gens as well. I mean, they'll see me punishing Death Eaters, and the death eater supporters, and just anyone who believes in this blood bigotry, and they'll all scream at how dark I am. But you three know the truth about darkness now."

"What about Weasley?" Tate asked, revealing that intelligence was as little of a requirement for Hufflepuff as it was for Gryffindor.

Harry shook his head. "Weasley's been dead for years now. Ever since he sold off Hermione and I to the Malfoys and LeStrange, and then watched as little Draco killed her. Ron died that night, I'm just now getting around to telling his body."

Harry looked up at Ron, and grinned. There was nothing nice or happy about that grin. "Ain't that right, Ronnie-kins?"

Ron's eyes were wide, and had tears streaming out of them. Horror and fear shone in the brightly, and suddenly the acrid smell of urine hung heavily in the air.

Harry twisted his body, and slammed Ron into the ground hard. Multiple cracks of breaking bones sounded exceedingly loud in the still morning air.

Harry stood back up straight, and pointed down at the boy. Magic and intent and hate flared to life, and erupted from his finger as multi-colored blobs of light. Blue and yellow and purple and a light pink. Pain and misery and death in happy, cheerful colors.

Ron writhed in agony as a curse slowly liquefied his internal organs, as a curse turned his muscles into stones, while activating every pain receptor in his body; as a curse began burning his bones, and as a curse froze the flesh of his skin.

For seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, Ron screamed and writhed and hurt.

The other aurors looked on in horror, while Harry watched with a small smile on his face.

Finally the screaming had stopped; and all that remained was a charred husk. A body whose final repose was a twisted mockery of rest. Its arms and legs were twisted and out of joint, while death had locked its mouth open in a rictus smile of pain.

"There you go 'Mione. I've sent the last of those bastards that killed you onto their next great adventure. Give him hell for me."

Harry gave the body a good kicked with his boot, and then looked back up at the aurors, his face twisted into a grin. "So, are we going to start this now? Or should you go running? Warn your families, warn the ministry. It won't matter."

Pucey looked at the still smoking remains of Ron, a slight grimace on his face. The other two shared a glance and then disappeared with a loud crack. In her haste, Richmond left a finger behind.

Pucey looked back up at him, an odd expression on his face; half defeat, half expectation. Then, he rattled off a string of apparation coordinates. Harry did not recognize them, but knew they would place him somewhere in Wales.

He raised an eyebrow at the older man.

Pucey shrugged. "It's the house. Why don't you come over, meet my wife Valentine, have dinner and maybe talk about your plans. I'm a full-blood, but I can certainly see how screwed up our world is. It needs to change. Besides, if you're going to go all Dark Lord on the ministry, you really ought to do it right with the followers and the calling card which you can leave behind after your attacks; and Valentine's always had a good eye towards designs."

Harry watched the other man for a moment, and then once again realized that he could not help but laugh.


	26. Auror Trainee Potter

**Auror Trainee Potter**

* * *

Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, scrubbing at his face. He was currently in his twelfth week of Auror training, and studying for the final examinations that were scheduled to be performed the following day. And worse, the Gauntlet would be the day after, and passing or failing that determined if he'd be an Auror or just another Hit Wizard.

Sighing slightly, he looked over at the man he was sharing a dorm room in the training center. It was a familiar sight, as he had shared a dorm with this man for years while they were both at Hogwarts together.

For years, he expected that person to be Ron. His best friend since he was eleven. Unfortunately, Ron had not been able to pass the entrance examinations that were required to join the Auror or Hit Wizard training programs. It had been something of a fight, when Harry had refused to use his fame to force either training program to accept Ron despite his lackluster grades.

A fight that had included most of the Weasleys and much to his surprise a few Ministry Employees. Employees who had been almost as surprised when he had refused.

Still, he could not complain about who he was assigned a room with. He had known Dean Thomas for almost as long as he had known Ron after all, even if they had never been quite as close as he had been to the other boy.

"Hey Dean?"

Dean looked up from his own notes, his eyes jaded and tired from the same strain that Harry was under. Auror and Hit Wizard training was intense, and harsh. Designed to weed out those who could not make it in either profession. It was almost sadistic in the way information and physical training and spell work was dropped on the trainees.

"Yeah, Harry?"

"I can't seem to find any notes from the classes that I missed last week due to that stomach bug. I think it was Tuesday. Can I see yours?"

Dean nodded, and began thumbing through his pages. Finally, he pulled out a couple sheets of parchments, and held them out towards Harry.

"Yeah," Dean said absently. "I remember that class. It was on detecting control potions and control charms, and finding out if they're keyed to a specific person, and for the charms, trying to determine the caster."

Harry frowned slightly, as he took the bundle of documents, and began flipping through them.

"You'd think that that's kind of important."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, funny day that was. Jensen told us that we shouldn't be talking to others about the subject, and that he'd get you a briefing when it became necessary for you to know the stuff."

Harry stopped his reading, suddenly _very_ interested in the subject they were discussing. He had been manipulated and lied to for years by their former Headmaster. Even after the old man had died, there were still the random aftereffects and ramifications to those manipulations that were impacting his life in diverse ways. Things he would find out at strange times and often quite unexpectedly. Things that were not always good for him. To be honest, these were things that were rarely good for him.

He had found that anything that even hinted at manipulations had become a very touchy subject with him; and something that was guaranteed to anger him. And focus his attention quite quickly.

"Wonder why the instructors haven't came up to me about that then..."

Dean shrugged, his attention still mostly on his own studying.

"Not sure. I do remember that they found that I had been under a mild love potion for a time back during school. Think it was estimated at around our sixth year, but it had been inactive for so long, they couldn't determine who it was keyed to."

Ice clenched his chest, as he remembered all the various things that had been going on that particular year. The fighting and bickering between him and Hermione. The monster in his chest whenever he saw Dean with Ginny, and the fact that that was the year he started dating her.

He closed his eyes, conflict running through him. On one hand, he had to know. It was an almost imperative. On the other, he did not want to believe that the girl he was dating would do that to him.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you cast those detection charms on me?"

That got the other boy's attention, and he shifted to focus on Harry. His brown eyes had confusion and concern flashing in them.

"You think you're being controlled?"

Harry sighed again, one hand absently reached up and scrubbed at his scar for a moment. "It's probably nothing, but I just have that feeling, you know. The one that I used to get every Halloween, because I just knew that something was going to happen. And... and do you remember who you were dating throughout most of sixth year?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, it was Ginny."

Harry returned the nod. "Yup, and I was almost insanely jealous of you whenever I saw the two of you together. If you two weren't around, I didn't ever really think of it. Hell, in all the years leading up to that one, I barely thought of, much less spoke to, Ginny. But when I saw you two, I felt like there was something in my chest trying to claw its way out. Within days of you and her breaking it off, I was getting kissed by her."

Dean's face had hardened, and without another word, he pulled out his wand. A few flicks, and the air around Harry flared to life with hundreds of runes and symbols and ideograms.

"Merlin's left nut," Dean muttered his eyes widening in shock. His eyes narrowing, he reached for a piece of parchment and a quill. After a moment, he gave his head a hard shake, and then began writing down the everything that he saw. All the controls and changes that had been inflicted on Harry. All the charms and potions designed to make him act in certain ways, to think in certain ways and to do certain things.

After twelve minutes, Dean set the quill aside and gave his wand a quick flick, dismissing the symbols.

His face became hard as he read through the list. Then he passed the document over to Harry.

"Here. And these are just the ones that are still active in your system."

Trepidation seized him. It squeezed at his heart and stomach, and he found that his hand trembled slightly as he took hold of the parchment.

Closing his eyes, Harry exhaled a breath, and tried to center his mind. Fought for control of his emotions and feelings.

Once he had settled slightly, he opened his eyes back up and began reading the list.

Dismay smashed through him as it told a story. A story of limitations and constraints and being forced to believe and do certain things.

His face had paled, and he looked up. "I've got power shunts, intelligence limiters, emotional shunts, and then there's the love, lust, loyalty, jealousy, dismissal and a host of other controlling potions."

Dean nodded. "Why wasn't this found during your physical before joining the aurors?"

"I can't believe that they missed this level of controls on me." Harry's whole body shuddered slightly. "I... I have to assume that it was already known. That it was known and approved, and that everyone in question is happy about this. It makes a horrible, horrible amount of sense especially in light of the fact that Jensen didn't want us discussing these techniques. If they're not discussed, then I wouldn't know about them. If they're not discussed, I can't ask someone to cast them on me."

A tense silence gripped them, and Harry looked down at the document again, reading the section where it described who each potion was keyed to.

Ginny had love, lust, jealousy, and loyalty potions.

Ron had loyalty potions.

Hermione.

Every potion that could make someone think bad about another, he had apparently taken, and Hermione was the key for them.

Worse off, all of them were at near lethal levels.

The two love potions were actually well over what was considered lethal.

He looked back over at Dean.

"It brings so many other things into question. I had hoped that with Dumbledore and Riddle dead, that the manipulations and lies that I had faced so often in school were over and done with. This," he shook the parchment. "This hints at a whole other level of controlling bastards. What am I being controlled for? Who is the controller? And why?"

Dean fiddled with his wand for a moment, and then looked at Harry.

"Long before I was a auror trainee, I was in the DA. We all looked up to you, Harry. We all saw you as the leader that we wanted to follow. Or at least all of us who were raised in the muggle world did. What's the plan."

Harry sighed, and scrubbed at his face. He found it hard to believe that the Weasley's could have done this to him and Hermione. Of course, with the number of loyalty potions that had been introduced into his system, there's not much that that particular family could do to make him think ill of them.

"My plan is to learn those charms. Brew two doses of every purgative needed to get these things out of my system, and then go find Hermione. Depending on exactly how far she's gone with Ron, my next step will either be assault and battery with intent, or homicide. After that... well, someone has to know something, and I'm damned certain that I'll figure out the who and whys. Even if it means bringing down the wizarding world as a whole."

Dean nodded his head slowly, and then stood up. "Well come on then. You've got some learning to do."

Harry grinned at Dean. It was a dark grin, that promised that soon someone, somewhere would be hurting. And luckily, he had years of practical training on how to hurt people. He stood, and pulled out his wand; waiting for the instructions that he needed to learn this set of charms and spells.

**• − • • − • − • − − − • − • / − • − • • − • • − • • • / • − − • − − − − − • • − • **

It had been three days since their final tests in the auror program. Three days that he had originally intended to be spent worrying over his results, and to determine whether or not he had managed to become an auror.

Instead, he had spent the previous three days with Dean as they had brewed dozens of purgatives, and researched another two dozen charms designed to dispel control charms.

It had been exhausting work, but finally, it was all done.

He had two batches of every potion needed.

A quick smile at Dean, he reached for the first of the potions he needed to take.

"Here's the plan. Send Hermione a letter telling her that you stopped by and I was unconscious, and ask if she could come by. When I wake up from these potions, if she's here, then we'll start. If she's not, then we'll go find her."

Dean gave him a tight lipped smile, and nodded his head. "That sounds like a good plan. Should we contact anyone else?"

Harry downed the first potion, and then grabbed the second as he thought.

He felt the potion begin with a shudder. A clenching deep in his stomach, and chest, which seemed to fight against his magic.

"We know the Weasley's are involved, so not them. Luna is still at school for another week before Hogwarts breaks for Christmas hols. I hate to say it, but Neville is a pureblood, so we probably need to try to bring him in on this in person. "

He took the second potion, and grimaced as the vile slime slithered down his throat. Forcibly keeping from gagging, he looked back over at Dean.

"Katie would tell the other Chasers, and Padma would tell Parvarti who would tell Lavendar." Harry paused for a moment. "Maybe Justin?"

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. "Let's see if Hermione is under these potions and whatnot, and then we'll go forward from there. It's not that I don't trust Justin..."

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and grimaced.

Harry understood. He remembered how flighty the pompous Hufflepuff had been during their school years, and did not expect that to have changed overly much in the months since they had all graduated.

He chugged two more potions in quick succession, feeling the magics of each twisting and writhing in his chest. His vision swam for a moment, and again, he had to force himself from vomiting.

Dean waved his wand, and his patronus swam away from them, through the wall and off. Dean sighed, and glanced at Harry. "Alright, that's Hermione called. Now, I'm going to start dispelling these charms."

Harry nodded and drank the final potion.

Dean's wand was twisting in a complicated motion, as darkness overtook him.

Awareness came back to Harry slowly, and in pieces. A slight brush of his hair. The feeling of a cool, wet cloth resting on his forehead. Whispered words, not quite understandable.

He opened his eyes, and saw that Hermione was leaning over him. She was chewing slightly on her lip, and there was a tenseness to her shoulders. A weight that appeared to be weighing down on her.

A swell of affection and desire raced through him at the sight of her. Something that he distinctly remembered had happened quite often throughout their third, fourth and fifth years.

Something that he now realized had startlingly and suddenly disappeared the summer before his sixth.

That alone pin-pointed just when the potions and charms had apparently been started. Or at least increased.

Anger flickered through his chest, and his body twitched with the sudden emotion.

A twitch which quickly drew Hermione's attention.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, her face twitching with nervousness, before she lunged at him and wrapped him up into a hug. "What happened?"

Harry settled into the hug. Another memory flickered through him. The end of second year. A handful of times in third year and too many times to count in fourth. Again, something which seemed to disappear nearly overnight while they were at the Burrow before sixth year.

"A lot of things have happened, 'Mione. Do you trust me?"

She leaned back and watched him for a moment before nodding. "Of course I do."

He gave her a short smile, and then had his wand in hand twisting it through a complicated motion. Hermione's eyes narrowed as the icons and runes sprang into existence around her.

"Bloody hell," Dean whispered just as Hermione was about to ask what Harry had done. Her head snapped towards him, to find he was watching them both. "That's almost as many love potions as you had in you, Harry."

"Yes," Harry said with a short sigh as he gestured towards a specific set of icons. "And they're keyed to Weasley as well."

"Harry," Hermione nearly growled out. "What's going on?"

He gave her a sad smile, as he started handing her potion bottles. "Take these, and we'll tell you."  
Hermione stared at the first one, and then sniffed it slightly.

"Just take the thing, 'Mione. You've been poisoned, and these will help."

He watched as her lips twitched slightly. "Well, yes, but I still remember how well you always did in potions."

Harry snorted in amusement, and then he told her about the missed day of training and how they had discovered the potions Harry had been given. And how the ministry had to actively collude with the giver of the potions in order for it to not come up in his medical exam.

Hermione was shuddering slightly under the effects of the purging potions, and her brow was crossed slightly.

"Fuck," she muttered.

Harry could not help but laugh, as he called out, "'Mione, Language!"

She glared at him for a moment. "No, I think it was a perfectly acceptable use of the word. We killed Tommy, but has anything really changed? Draco isn't in jail. Most of the Slytherins, including Pansy who demanded we be turned over to Tom at the final battle were cleared of charges. Worse, most of the Death Eaters were cleared as well. All in the name of the greater good of society of course. The non-pureblood portions of the 'golden trio' end up potioned up and pawned off to a pair of purebloods. The both of us too caught up in our own little dramas to effectively lobby for change. The damn 'bloods won."

Dean and Harry were both frowning.

Suddenly, Harry bounced to his feet, and began pacing, as he applied the investigative techniques he had learned at the Academy to his life.

"You're right," he told her after a moment. His eyes twitched between the two. "I... Could this have been Dumbledore's plan? Could Dumbledore's issues with Tommy have been less about the politics, and more about the fact that Tommy was a half-blood and killing indiscriminately?"

Dean nodded. "I can see what you're getting at. Most of those raised in the wizarding world are bigots. Sure, some of them hide it really well, but..."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, I know. I remember the first time Arthur met my parents. He talked to them as if they were trained monkeys rather than thinking, feeling people."

Harry shook his head. "This can't go on. We owe it to ourselves and our dead to not let it. Hell, I want to have kids one day, and I don't want them to grow up in this world?"

Hermione looked at him, an odd look in her eyes. "Ginny?"

Harry shuddered. "Merlin, no! She looks like my mum!"

Hermione's eyes widened, while Dean burst out into laughter.

* * *

**AN - And with that out of the way, there was a 'guest' reviewer once more commenting on things-and doing so in a way that prevents direct responses. Anyways, his complaint centered specifically around the fact that I called Dumbledore an 'Old-family pureblood' in the last story. Or more accurately, I had one of the CHARACTERS do so. **

**First off, the only thing in the books related to Dumbledore's blood-status is a discussion between Muriel and Doge during Bill's wedding. Muriel implies that Kendra was a muggle born and pretended not to be. Doge disagrees. Of course, exactly WHICH part of the conversation he's disagreeing with is up in the air. The sentence is just vague enough to imply that either Kendra never pretended to not be a muggleborn or it could imply that Kendra didn't NEED to pretend to not be a muggleborn. **

**But either way, that's missing the simple fact that Pucey could have just been wrong. Or assumed.**

**Perfectly reasonable thing to do. After all, Dumbledore did hold a lot of high-level positions in a society that has a lot of folks focused on blood superiority, and very implicit blood-bias against non-purebloods.**


	27. Even More Mish-Mash

**AN: Yet another selection of random scenes, each individually too small to be by its lonesome.**

−− •• ••• •••• / −− •− ••• ••••

−− •• ••• •••• / −− •− ••• ••••

−− •• ••• •••• / −− •− ••• ••••

**Random Goblet of Fire scene...**

Harry Potter settled onto the bench, and pulled the plate of roast beef towards him. There was a harsh, tense air of expectation in the hall. One which weighed heavily on his shoulders, which pushed down at him.

He hated this night. He had since he had discovered the real cause of his parent's death on his eleventh birthday. Worse, it seemed that bad things happened on this night. Hermione almost dying. Mrs. Norris being petrified. Sirius breaking into the Gryffindor dorms.

Something deep in his gut just told him that it was going to be another bad night, leading to another horrible year.

A shudder raced down his spine, and he frowned down at his plate of food.

The small pressure of Hermione's hand drew his attention away from the plate. He looked at her, noting the concern and disquiet which seemed to haunt her face.

She twitched an eyebrow, a movement that he interpreted as her asking if he was all right.

He gave her a weak smile. Her head tilted fractionally, and he quickly shook his.

"I'm just not up to a feast tonight," he murmured in response. Her lips pressed together tightly, and her head shifted almost imperceptibly.

He stood and started making his way towards the exit when a voice called out.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry paused, and glanced towards the head table. All the professors were watching him, and another of those shudders raced across his spine. He could feel every muscle tense, and quiver as he stilled. That weight was back. Heavy and foreboding. It was one he recognized from the Chamber of Secrets and facing the dementors or even facing Quirrell. There was danger here. In the gaze of the teachers, in their expectations and demands. It was a pressure that clenched his chest and shoulders; dark and heavy and disquieting.

Apparently oblivious to his discomfort, his Head of House continued speaking. "We will be choosing the champions of the Tournament in a few moments, please return to your seat."

Harry nodded tersely and returned to his seat next to Hermione.

He frowned down at his plate, his hands in his lap, while that sense of BAD THINGS hung heavy on his shoulders. Hermione reached down and grabbed one of his hands, squeezing it tightly. He looked at her for a moment, and gave another weak smile.

Then Filch rolled in the cabinet that held the Goblet of Fire.

Harry stared at the cup as it passed through the hall. It appeared that it had been formed from crystal and silver. Odd glyphs and symbols were decorated on each of its facets. Arcane icons that seemed to dance in the shadows caused by the reflected flames.

As it neared his seat, time seemed to slow. Harry could feel the ambient magic in the Great Hall flicker and dance in time to the flames. He could feel the cup's power slashing at his chest; tasting and testing his magic.

A dull ache flared into existence. A throbbing pain which flickered and flared in time with the flame's dance. It seemed to pull at him, and he grimaced even as he grabbed the side of his chest.

He could feel Hermione's concern as she focused her attention on him. He could taste the flavor and texture of her magic as it twirled and twisted. It thrummed in harmony with his magic.

This caused him to pause, made him glance away from the goblet and its runes and magic and fire and focus on his best friend. To really look and see the young woman she had become, and what was more, see the woman that was emerging.

He watched Hermione while Dumbledore spoke meaningless words about the Tournament and the Champions. Empty platitudes designed to make the students interested in the event.

To Harry, it was pointless drivel. Unintelligible white noise, that attempted to steal his focus away from the witch that sat close to his side.

After a moment, he exhaled slowly, and shifted his attention back to the front of the hall.

The flames which the goblet held turned blue, and flared higher. Magic pulsed.

The foreign magic seemed to thrum, it washed across him, as a wave even as it flickered and spun through his awareness.

After a moment, magic seemed to draw a deep breath and hold it.

Expectation tingled across every one of his nerves.

Then there was a scrap of parchment floating in the air. Its ragged edges blackened and charred.

Dumbledore deftly plucked it out of the air, and looked at it. He lifted his head, his eyes twinkling madly. "The Durmstrang champion is... Viktor Krum!"

Loud cheering and applause broke out.

Just as it was calming down, the cup flared to life again. Again that pulsing, thrumming magic.

Dumbledore stared at the paper for another long moment, allowing the expectation to build. "The Beuaxbaton's champion is... Fluer Delacuer!"

The applause to this was not as exuberant as Krum's. Harry had known that the beautiful French witch had not made many friends at Hogwarts, but was slightly surprised at the cold reception which the Beauxbaton's contingent provided.

Silence rippled across the hall as the cup flared again. A burst of magic and fire and then another piece of parchment danced on the non-existent breeze. The paper was plucked from the air, and Harry could feel the squeeze on his chest, could feel his jaw clench. Hermione placed a hand on his arm, and tightened her grip for a moment.

"The Hogwart's Champion is... Cedric Diggory!"

Harry exhaled loudly, even as he felt the tenseness leave his shoulders and chest. Whispered conversations broke out through the hall. Conversations which Harry ignored.

Absently he heard the Headmaster speaking about the tournament, and its traditions, and the honor and glory of winning.

And at that moment, magic once again thrummed in the hall.

The crackle of the fire overrode the still whispering conversations. It was a loud crackling hiss; one which spat and snapped. Accompanied by a twisting magic that was angry and harsh.

The fire and magic flared; a pulse of energy and light and heat.

And then it was there; floating gently, wavering and dancing and twisting on thermals that only it could detect. Even from his seat halfway down the Gryffindor table, he could see the smoldering edges of the parchment.

Ancient fingers plucked the scrape from the air.

Everything settled into silence and expectation.

Dumbledore's voice was soft at first. "Harry Potter..."

Harry shook his head in denial. He could not believe this.

The Headmaster's face snapped away from the parchment, and towards Harry. His voice was louder and harsher this time. "Harry Potter!"

Harry turned away, and looked at Hermione. Fear filled her face. Worry aged her by at least a decade.

Then Dumbledore's voice rang out once again. This time in all but a shout. "Harry Potter!"

Harry struggled to his feet, still uncertain on what was happening. He glanced down at Hermione for but a moment, before focusing once again on Dumbledore. Then he spoke. His voice was a harsh, snapping sound that was layered with disgust and distrust. "What?"

There was an stuttered intake of air. A gasp that someone, anyone-but especially Harry-would speak in that tone of voice to the Headmaster. It was a sheer disquiet that seemed to infect even the benches at the thought that there would be a person who would dare speak to the venerable old wizard with that inflection; with that lack of respect.

He could feel the old man's attention and focus; could feel the magic and power that the old man leaked.

"Your name has come out of the Goblet. You are a champion." He then gestured towards the trophy room off to the side.

Harry looked that way, and then shook his head.

"No."

Silence gripped the hall as that spoken word seemed to reverberate around the room. A tense, coiled silence that seemed to Harry that it ached to strike at something. And he knew that that something was him.

The Headmaster blinked his eyes, as he watched him. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I really must insist that you join the other champions."

Harry's lips twisted into a rictus-like grin, as he once again shook his head. "And still, I have to say no. I did not enter, had no desire to enter and thus I shall not compete."

One of the ministry flunkies that was standing against the wall stepped forward. His face was quickly purpling as he sputtered and snarled. "That's not up to you to decide! Your name came out, and that means you shall compete!"

Harry watched the hall for a moment, and then spun on his heel and started walking towards the door.

"Harry Potter! Stop what you're doing now!" The Headmaster demanded. His voice was laced with compulsion.

Harry could feel the magic in the words, could feel it as it tried to worm its way into his mind and bend him to the Headmaster's point of view.

He paused, and reached deep within himself. He pulled at the core of his very being that he had always felt his magic rise from. He could feel that magic twinning through him, coiling like a snake ready to strike; and then he pushed with his own magic.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then he started to shimmer, in the same way that a road would in the summer sun. That twisting of light soon began to glow slightly. Energy arced out from him. It crackled across his skin as a mixture of lightning and flames that seemed to caress him.

Harry shifted until he could once again see the Headmaster. "You would try to force me with mind magics? Didn't your Defense professor tell you that I can throw off the imperius, what do you think your pitiful compulsion would do."

McGonnagal and Sprout hissed in surprise at Harry's pronouncement. In an eye blink, Dumbledore had his wand in hand, aiming it towards Harry.

"Don't make me do this, Harry. Just go into the other room." the old man whispered.

The aether seemed to scream.

One of the second year Hufflepuffs who was particularly sensitive to the flows of magic did scream.

Then the wand that was pointed towards Harry caught fire. In moments, it had flashed from existence, leaving Dumbledore cradling a badly burned hand, and standing over a pile of ash.

Harry shook his head. "And that's still 'no.'"

With that said, he turned away and walked out of the Great Hall.

For a heartbeat there was no sound. No movement. Just a sense of relief that that overwhelming pressure which was Harry's magic was gone.

Then that heartbeat had ended, and Hermione had stood and rushed from the room. Harry's name was on her lips, as she cleared the doors, and began rushing towards the common room where she hoped against hoped he was actually heading.

−− •• ••• •••• / −− •− ••• ••••

**Death Bed Confession**

Hermione gave the nurse a tight lipped smile as the other woman gestured her into the hospital room. Inside was her husband of four years. According to the healers he had collapsed while at the shop and they had no idea what was wrong, but knew that he was dying and did not have much time left.

Not for the first time she wondered why she had married him. Why she had taken the vows that kept them bound to one another, kept her from looking elsewhere for the emotional and physical sport she craved. Of course those vows protected her as well, for as long as she didn't stay he could not physically or magically hurt her.

Her eyes flickered around the room, noting the exits, hiding places, as well as where everyone who was there was standing. That was a habit that she had picked up during the war, and still kept even five years after it was over. Ginny on Ronald's right and Molly on his left. Arthur stood behind Molly. All of their faces were tight and grief stricken. Of course there was no Harry. He was not welcome anymore, not after he turned Ginny down; and due to those damnable vows she had never been able talk to him and find exactly what had happened.

Finally, her attention fell on the occupant of the bed that was situated in the middle of the room: Ronald Weasley. His skin was pale and taut, appearing almost paper thin where it stretched across his bones. His hair appeared even thinner than it had this morning before she had left for work. His eyes were blood shot and had dark bruise-like shadows beneath them. Probably the worst though was his breathing, it rattled in his chest and appeared to actually hurt him with every draw and exhale.

Ginny got up from the chair right next to his bed, and then gave her a dark smile.

As she changed places with the younger witch, Hermione ignored the look, much as she had ignored all the odd and funny looks she had gotten from the other girl over the past few years.

Once settled, she reached out and took Ron's hand. It felt like sandpaper in her grip: dry and nearly dead.

Ron turned his head, and looked at her for a long hard minute. Emotions not hunger or lust or jealousy flared in his eyes. If Hermione did not know better she would say it was guilt and grief.

"Can... Can..." Ron's voice was as dry and weak as his appearance.

Molly's voice from the far side of the bed rang out, as sheik and domineering ever. "Don't try to speak just now, Ronnie. You just focus on getting better."

"N-n-no. Need to talk to 'Erminee..."

Molly's eyes hardened for a brief moment.

Hermione spoke before Molly could. "My husband obviously wants to have a word alone with me."

There was a harsh tense silence after that. Finally Arthur ushered the others from the room.

Once they were gone, Hermione threw up a quick privacy ward. And then another silencing one.

Ron gave a deep sigh. "N-need to confess..."

"Don't worry about it Ronald. The healers say you don't have too much longer."

"I-I n-n-know. Why I need to tell you."

Hermione smiled sadly. "No, you just rest."

"Got to tell you."

Hermione watched him for a long moment, a part of her wanting to argue with him. Finally she just sighed. "Go ahead, Ronald."

"I've had affairs. With Lavender, Pansy and Romilda Vane. Been having them for years."

"Oh, Ronald, I know."

His breathing hitched tightly, and he blinked twice. "You... You knew?"

Hermione nodded her head quickly.

"Of course," she said, with a bright happy smile. The first real smile she had given in what felt like forever. "After all, that's why I poisoned you."

−− •• ••• •••• / −− •− ••• ••••

**Down Payments**

Ten year old Harry Potter stared at the snake which was apparently quite happy to be staring back at him. Harry had always known that he was different from the other children. For one, at ten, he was significantly smaller than all of his peers, despite having been much taller than them when they were all eight.

Another reason was the way his body seemed to heal so quickly after the beatings his uncle or cousin would give him; not to mention how much longer each of those beatings took to actually hurt him. At least until he learned how to pretend to be hurt. That did not really help when his uncle used the belt, but even the last time that had happened, his uncle had grown too tired to continue before his skin broke under the attention of the leather strap.

Of course the fact that his uncle only referred to him as 'Freak' also lent itself to the idea that he was different. That he was not normal.

So, having a snake be able to talk to him was, while startling, ultimately not surprising to Harry Potter. It would just be another thing that set him apart. Another oddity about him. Much like the time he made his teacher's hair turn blue. Or the time that he jumped to the roof of the school while being chased by his cousin.

Intention tingled across his awareness. He knew he was about to be attacked in some way. He also knew that to react in any way would lead to punishments. He had already spent the past three days in the cupboard under the stairs, and had no desire to spend additional time there.

So, he allowed his heavyset cousin to push his shoulder, as hard as the pudgy boy could. He allowed himself to stumble away from the boy, and even as his instincts roared and fought against it, he allowed himself to fall to the ground.

He shot his cousin a dirty look, and felt power flare through his chest. Could feel it at the tips of his fingers which appeared to be glowing ever so slightly with a yellow light. Yet a glance behind him saw that his Uncle and Aunt were their glaring at him. Disgust and distrust marring their features in rather ugly ways. Which, Harry consider a rather surprising turn of events considering how his uncle typically looked.

Instead of allowing the power slip from his control and do something, that would most likely be amusing yet end with him spending more time in the cupboard under the stairs, he pulled that power back in. Drew it back into himself and allowed it to twist around in his chest, and rage there for a moment. Then just as quickly as it had flared, it was quiet again. It no longer raged, but Harry could feel it waiting for just the right moment when he could use it.

He knew that something had almost happened, and that he had stopped it. What he was not aware of was the way his hair had lifted, and shifted as if in a strong wind, even though they were inside the reptile building.

Harry allowed a sigh of relief to escape him. When he had been younger, his emotions had always gotten away from him. He would rage and grow angry so very easily. He still was not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that his erstwhile guardians had beaten caution and control into him or not.

What he did know was he had to be much sneakier than ever if he wanted to get back at his cousin. He had to do things such that no attention could even possibly be construed and carried back his way.

So, he stood up, and turned from his cousin, and walked past his aunt and uncle to look at a sand lizard just by the door. He leaned closer to the lizard, until his nose was all but touching the window.

In the reflection on the glass, he could see his aunt watching him. A sneer plastered on her face. His uncle was watching Dudley, and Dudley and Piers were both making stupid noises at the snake.

Harry took a deep breath, and held it for a count of five before exhaling. He stared harder at the lizard, as he consider things.

Then he decided. The best way to get back at his cousin for this, would be to make him trip. So, he decided that when he clenched his fist, Dudley's right shoe would be partially stuck to the floor. Not enough to stay, but just enough that it would appear that he had fallen.

That decided, Harry shifted to look across the aisle. There was a Barbados threadsnake in that container. He watched as the small, spaghetti-sized snake slid across the bottom of the cage.

Then he shifted a finger.

And waited.

Another moment passed before the other two boys grew tired of yelling at the large snake Harry had been looking at.

Harry chose that moment to kneel down, so he could look into a cage containing a Desert Threadsnake. He could feel his aunt's eyes still watching him; judging him.

There was a yelp from the other end of the room, and Harry glanced that way to see Dudley sprawled across the floor.

Harry knew that no one would ever know, and he knew that he could not tell anyone, but inside, he was smiling. Just another small down payment on the punishment that he would one day give his relatives.

−− •• ••• •••• | −− •− ••• ••••

**They Call Me...**

Harry was in a fowl mood. There had been a mob hanging around the Leaky Cauldron, and then another one right outside the Three Broomsticks. He had hated it when they called him "The-Boy-Who-Lived," but "The-Boy-Who-Saved-Us-All," was not better by any stretch of the imagination. He had been almost eighteen when he had finally killed Voldemort; but still, the wizarding press had labeled him "The-Boy-Who-Saved-Us-All."

And it had been three years since the end of the war; three long years of the stupid names and the staring and all sorts of hassles and headaches.

With a quick glance around, he entered the other bar that was in Hogsmead.

The dark, dirty, dingy room was cool and best of all empty of all others but the barkeep.

He gave the old man a tight-lipped smile, and already in a much better frame of mind settled onto one of the stools in front of the bar itself. This was a one of the few pieces of actual beauty that could be found in the Hog's Head. It was a massive expansive of highly polished oak with cherry inlays. There were carvings on the edge closest to him-beautiful Celtic knot-work.

Harry sighed, and the old man chuckled.

"Come now, Harry. It can't be all that bad."

A tankard of butterbeer was placed in front of him. Harry blinked for a moment, and then wrapped his hands around the drink. Smiling at the slight warmth of the cup, and enjoying the strong scent of the sweet drink.

"I don't know how your brother did it, Aber."

"Probably memory charms and compulsions, if the latest Skeeter book can be believed," Aberforth said before he barked a short, sharp, laugh. "Now, what's gotten you all out of sorts this day?"

Harry took a long drink. He lowered the tankard to the bar, and stared into the drink for a moment. Then he shook his head slightly. "I'm just getting tired of all the staring, and the names that they call me."

"Could be worse."

With that, Harry's head snapped up, and he stared hard at the old man.

Aberforth gave another of those short, sharp, bitter laughs. Then he gestured out the window, and pointed to the fountain at the cent of the town. "You see that fountain?"

Harry looked out the window. The fountain in question was a beautiful edifice of marble. Water moved across it in a spray of glittering jewels that sparkled in the summer sun. After watching it for a moment, he turned back to Aberforth. "Yeah."

The old man nodded slightly. "I built it."

Harry blinked, and glanced out the window again, before once more focusing on Aberforth. "Really?"

"Aye. With my own two hands. Designed it, built it, and even enchanted the workings, so that it will run even in the deeps of winter without freezing over."

"That's amazing."

"But, do they call me, 'Aberforth, the Fountain Maker?' No. Most of the business owners around here know, but not a one calls me that."

"So, wha-"

Aberforth quickly interrupted Harry. Speaking as he once again pointed out the window. "See the town chapel there?"

Harry looked out the window again. The edge of the chapel could be made out from behind the bulk of Tomes and Scrolls. What he could see of the building indicated a mixture of cruck construction matched with an oddly Romanesque styling. Harry was not that familiar with various architecture, but knew that the building in question was well-built, and quite comfortable even during the harsh Scottish winters. He also knew it wasn't used for church services, as much as a type of community center for weddings and other gatherings.

He turned his attention back to Aberforth, and nodded his head.

"Built that too. Designed it, put in place probably half of the bricks. Even made the glass work myself. But no one calls me, 'Aberforth, the Church Maker'. Nope. Not that."

"Well. But wh-"

"See that fence out there? The stone one that circles out back of the bar?"

Harry glanced out a different window. This one looking out into a small paddock that had a few goats and two chickens. That paddock was surrounded by a waist-high stone fence.

Harry nodded.

"Built it too. Dug the stones up, and placed them with my own wand I did. It was the nicest fence in Hogsmeade for a decade until young Gillivan built his. But do they call me 'Aberforth, the Fence Maker?'"

"I'm going to go with no."

"Of course they don't! Not a soul has ever done so." Aberforth said, and then he slapped his hand down on the bar in front of them. There was the loud crack of flesh hitting a hard, solid, wood. "See this bar?"

Harry nodded his head, quickly.

"Built it too. Carved and shaped it by hand. Sanded it until it shone and even hand-carved those little Celtic knots that you're leaning against. Spent months doing it, and then made one quite a bit like it for Rosmerta. Hers has little heather flowers decorating it."

Harry looked down at the bar for a moment, and then looked up once more at the old man.

"Think they call me 'Aberforth, the Bar Maker?'"

"Uhh... no?"

"No! I spent hour upon hour upon hour, and everyone says that this is the most beautiful bar they've ever seen, but no. They don't call me that. And let me tell you, I've ran this bar for nigh on eighty years. Have served thousands upon thousands of drinks. And am able to mix anything anyone's ever asked me for. That's nearly three generations of students. But do folks call me, 'Aberforth, the Bartender?'"

"No?"

"No! Not once in all the years that I've owned this bar, has anyone referred to me like that." Aberforth, sighed, and picked up a glass and a rag; both rather dirty. He looked down at the glass for a long moment, before focusing once again on Harry. "But, get caught, just once mind, casting 'questionable charms' on a goat while your trousers are around your ankles..."

* * *

**AN: Not exactly a kid-friendly joke. But the original can be found with a quick google search of "McGregor goat" A co-worker told it to me a bit back, and I remembered it, and immediately thought of dear Aberforth. **


	28. Exits

"Silencio!" Hermione's voice rang out amidst the chaos and confusion of the battle.

Harry had no clue where Ginny, Ron or Luna were, as they had gotten separated from Hermione, Neville and himself three rooms ago.

Still the sizzle and flash of magic that slashed past his ear was enough to startle him slightly even as he stunned the death eater he was facing.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Hermione straightening slightly, a grin on her face.  
Then a purple flame flickered past him; a coruscating ribbon of foul magic with the taste of pain and death.

It slammed into Hermione's chest, starting at her left shoulder and crossing down her chest to her right hip.

Her eyes widened, and she let out this weak, little "Oh" before collapsing in a spray of blood and the smell of burnt flesh.

Harry's chest clenched, he could not breath, his mind just blanked, and all colors leeched themselves from the world.

He stumbled forward slightly, staggering against a desk as he felt his existence shatter.

She was pale and bloodied and there was nothing left for him. She was the only one who had ever stood by him without exception. She was the only one who had always been there for him, and had always trusted and believed in him.

In that moment, he realized just how much Harry Potter needed and depended on Hermione Granger. He had been stepping back from her, knowing as he did that Ron felt he had feelings for her, but now, now he knew that if she survived he would not, could not let that happen. She was too important to him.

It seemed to take forever for her to fall to the ground, and forever for him to turn back around to the death eater that shot the curse.

He saw him, but did not see him as a person. No, he knew that Death Eaters were not really people. They did not really exist as living, thinking, feeling human beings. They were rabid animals, sick and all to willing to spread pain, misery and their own sickness.

They were the other.

They were the dark boogeyman that had to be banished and destroyed from the playgrounds of day.

And this one had taken his Hermione from him.

Absently, he noticed that the silenced death eater was already moving his wand in a complicated pattern. Probably an effort to send that purple curse at them again.

Harry Potter would not suffer that.

This thing had cursed his last. There was nothing further for him to do. This dark creature's life was forfeit and over. The thing just did not know it yet.

Harry's wand snapped up.

He spoke no incantation.

He performed no wand movements.

There was no need for such things.

He was pure intent and will and power.

There was no need for shiny lights or pretty sounds or any of the trappings of dueling.

This was a cleansing.

A culling of the dark and dirty and depraved.

The Death Eater screamed. An unholy sound that shattered the silencing charm that Hermione had dropped on him. His wand clattered to the floor, as his hands clawed at his robes. Ripping them and his mask from his body.

Harry saw a large man, with dark hair and a scar on his face. A face that was twisted with pain and suffering. Blood erupted from the man's eyes, ears and nose. A spray of ichor that coated the desks and ceiling and walls around him. His chest seemed to twist in upon itself, and there was a horrible wrenching sound. A wet tearing as the man's skin flayed itself away. Followed by the muscles and arteries, to finally leave the organs exposed.

Organs which exploded in a shower of gore one at a time.

All while the man screamed.

Finally the screams stopped, and silence weighed heavily in the room.

Harry gulped in a breath, and dropped both the wand and the prophesy sphere. His wand clattered, and the sphere shattered. Casting glass and blue smoke and whispered words around his feet.

His eyes burned as he turned back to Hermione. He stumbled over towards her. Needing to be beside her and not wanting to see what had happened to her all at the same time.

It was a harsh feeling, a twisting in his gut that twirled and poked and pulled and made him want to sick over everything and everyone.

He dropped to his knees next to her, and pulled her into an embrace. He found himself crying for the first time in his memory.

"'Mione," he whispered in a harsh, low tone. One filled with pain and longing and need. "Please don't die. I need you. I... I love you..."

His body hitched as a sob hit him, and it caused her to moan slightly in pain.

Suddenly, everything could be all right. There could be a tomorrow as she still lived.

Her eyes twitched open, and he smiled at her. A smile that she returned however weakly.

"Gods 'Mione," he said, his voice a harsh, agonized whispered.

"Love you too," was the simple, almost breathless whispered reply.

Then he leaned down and kissed her. He tasted the sweat and blood and tears that they were both coated with, but above and beyond that he tasted her. He was kissing Hermione.

A rightness settled into his chest. A sensation that said everything was as it was supposed to be and that the world would continue and get better. That tomorrow would be happier than today. A warmth of hope and joy in his chest, and the distinct sensation of Hermione resting at the forefront of his awareness. He knew she was awake and somewhat aware, and he could feel her joy at the kiss, he could feel her love for him.

He glanced over at Neville. The young man was watching him, blood trickling from his swollen nose, his eyes wide and which had a slightly panicked, startled glaze to them. Harry picked up Hermione, and glanced towards the doors.

"We've got to get out of here," he told his friend who merely nodded his head.

Then three Death Eaters walked into the room. Two males and one female.

They stopped as they saw the three teens as well as the remains of their fellow.

One of them removed his mask to reveal Lucius Malfoy's aristocratic features. Features which were twisted into a hate-filled sneer.

"This is at an end, now boy," he snarled. "Your other friends are gone, and you three are trapped. Give me the sphere and we'll let you leave alive."

Pain hitched in his chest for a moment at the thought of Ron, Ginny and Luna being dead. But it was a mockery of his earlier pain. A momentary hiccup that paled in comparison to the need to get Hermione to safety.

Harry shook his head slightly. "The sphere is gone. There's nothing left for any of us here."

Lucius' pale skin whitened further. "You lie," the man hissed.

Harry laughed, a short, sharp brittle thing; twinged with exhaustion and broken control. "No, Lucius, I don't."

The older man's face turned dark and stony, and he snapped his wand in a short, sharp manner. A wave of energy flickered into existence and slammed into the three teens. Harry dropped to his knees, darkness eating at the edges of his vision.

Then he dropped into the well of unconsciousness. Letting the darkness of oblivion consume and subsume him, letting it draw him into its depths and comforts.

**• −••− •• − ••• **

He jolted to awareness. Bright lights glared in his face and he twinged away from them. From beside him, he heard a soft moan, and glanced that way to find Hermione manacled into a chair. Her head lolled slightly, and he could tell that she was not fully awake or aware.

Twisting slightly, he realized that he was bound as well, and glanced down to see the thick heavy chains wrapped around his chest and arms holding him down in his seat.

Looking up, he saw that he was sitting in the same courtroom where his trial for underage magic had been held the previous summer. A dark circular room where black stone and darkly stained wood dominated everything.

He knew that behind him was the audience stand. A glance over his shoulder showed that it was filled almost to capacity. Roughly a hundred witches and wizards had shown up for whatever was to happen to him today.

He sighed, and glanced over at Hermione. His chest ached at the pallor of her skin, the slightly feverish tinge that her flesh held; a waxy skein that made it clear she was unwell.

He did not know how, but he could feel her awareness returning. It was like a humming he was just barely aware of that grew louder.

Her eyes flickered open, and she twitched in the seat, fighting for a moment against the chains.

"'Mione," he hissed at her.

She jerked slightly, and glanced at him. Her eyes wide and panicked until their eyes locked; then she calmed and stilled. Her shoulders slumping slightly and losing their tenseness.

"What's happening?" she whispered back at him.

He gave a short shake of his head. "Not sure, I just woke up as well. But this is a courtroom, and we're currently in the defendant chairs."

She glanced down, a frown flickering across her features. "Figures. Even their defense chairs scream preordained judgment."

His shoulders hitched with his suppressed amusement, and he looked around the room again.

The door at the back of the raised platform opened, and a number of people entered the room. He recognized these individuals, most of them had been at his trial over the summer, some of them had been in the graveyard when Voldemort had been reborn.

Immediately in front of them though stood Minister Fudge. Beside him was Percy and on the other side of him was an older woman with a monocle that he recognized as Amelia Bones.

A short, rotund man wearing a green bowler hat stepped up to the podium, and cleared his throat twice.

"This special session of the Wizengamot is now in order. Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge presiding as acting Chief Warlock. Percival Ignotus Weasley is today's court scribe."

The man twiddled with his hands and some papers for a moment, before looking around the room. His face had a slightly green tint to it, as if he was not entirely comfortable with today's proceedings.

"We are here today, for the trail of Harry James Potter and Hermione Jane Granger for the vile murders of two purebloods: Antonin Dolohov and Luna Lovegood. Additionally, these two are charged with the crimes of corruption and mental influence of a pureblood in the form of Neville Franklin Longbottom, breaking and entering of the Ministry of Magic, specifically the Department of Mysteries, and vandalization of said department. How do the accused plead?"

"Not guilty," they both said in clear voices.

Harry frowned when he realized that no one but Hermione could apparently hear them. He shouted at Fudge, railed against the injustice that this represented, but there was no response, but a sneer from the man.

"Let the record show that the accused did not present a plea, nor offer any testimony for their defense."

Harry slumped back into the seat. Shock rolling through him, but at the same time there was a part of him that was unsurprised. A part of him that had expected this to happen. He knew that they had been silenced. he could feel the magic of the silence charm hovering around them if he focused enough. It was just like this particular body to do something like this after all.

He glanced over at Hermione, and saw that there were tears hovering at the edge of her eyes. Apparently, she felt his gaze, as she turned towards him. Her brown eyes swam with emotions; emotions he could feel in the hind parts of his brain.

"I love you," he whispered to her.

She gave him a weak smile, and seemed to relax into her chains. A sort of slumping motion that ended with a grimace as her body twisted just a hair too far for the curse that ran across her chest.

"I love you too," she whispered back.

Harry felt at peace. She loved him. Nothing else mattered. Everything else could be overcame and conquered for as long as she was with him.

He smiled, and turned his attention back to where a man who had introduced himself as Yaxley was presenting the so-called evidence against them. Currently, he was carrying on with the help of a healer about how they had brainwashed Neville into thinking they were his friends and had forced him to go on the ill-fated trip to the ministry.

Harry looked around, a frown as he realized that neither Longbottom was at the ministry this day. He sighed, and settled back into his seat, trying to pay attention to their farce of a trial.

Finally, Yaxley had finished with the healer and dismissed her from the witness stand. The man grinned at the two teens maliciously; a dark, grin which seemed to promise pain and suffering.

"For my next witness, I call Ronald Bilious Weasley to the stand."

Harry jerked upright, and glanced over towards the door by the witness stand. Ronald walked into the room, and settled into the witness stand. His eyes darted about the room, flickering over everyone and everything, never resting, and never settling onto either Harry or Hermione.

His chest hitched as an uncomfortable thought settled into his brain. A thought made up of dark feelings, and concerns about his oldest friend that he had all so often pushed away from conscious consideration. Thoughts and feelings about how the boy often treated both him and Hermione. The jealousy and anger and fickleness that the boy presented towards him as a matter of course.

"Don't worry about this. I'm sure Ron's testimony will help us." Hermione whispered at him. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the dark feelings wash over and through him. Hermione had seemed to sense the outcast of his feelings, even if she had not correctly guessed exactly what those were.

He opened his eyes, and glanced over at her. "I don't think that's what's going to happen, 'Mione."

She frowned, but before she could reply, Ron was sworn into the stand. Both noticed that it was not a magically binding oath that was taken. Just the implied word of the witness; that Ron as a pureblood would tell the truth on the stand without the indignity of a binding oath.

Yaxley's voice was filled with something that struck Harry as amusement. "So, Ron, tell us about what happened that night."

Ron finally glanced at Harry. For a moment, Harry could swear there was sorrow in the boy's eyes. That for a second, there was something that meant the boy would actually stand up for his friends.

Then he looked away.

"Well, Harry had some sort of fit during the History of Magic OWL. After that, he kept going on about how he had to get to the Ministry in order to help his godfather."

"Who is this godfather?"

"Sirius Black."

And with that statement and the accompanying rushed, gasp of outrage from the audience, Harry realized the plan. Ron was going to be able to tell the truth, and at the same time paint it all as Harry and Hermione's fault.

"Sirius Black? The same Sirius Black who escaped from Azkaban as well as the Hogwarts professors a few years back?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Harry's always going on about him, and wanting to spend time with him. He has ever since he helped Black escape from Hogwarts."

There was another of those gasps, and Harry glared at the red head.

"And how was Miss Granger involved in all of this."

"Well, Hermione she's always the one that plans things. They do everything together, always whispering about something or other, and she even refused the advances of a pureblood wizard in favor of spending time _studying_ with Harry."

Harry continued to glare at his old friend, rage flickering through his chest, burning and twisting in the core of his being. A maelstrom that he felt contained and suppressed within himself.

A rage fueled by the words that Ron was saying, the implications on Hermione's virtue and honor.

He could taste the magic that hung heavily in the air.

From beside him, her heard Hermione's hissed whisper, "Harry!"

He glanced over at her, and felt his stomach lurch. Her eyes shone with concern and a hint of fear. He cocked an eyebrow, not quite trusting his mouth to only ask the question of what she needed.

"You're starting to glow."

He looked down at his hands, and saw that where the chains were touching his body there was a dark red glow. It was sinister and twisted looking, it contained an unnaturalness that set uneasily on the edge of his teeth. Looking closer, he could see dark runes carved into the metal. Somehow he knew that those runes were there to suppress and drain magical energy. They were designed to keep defendants weak and suppressed and in the chairs.

He exhaled, and fought to gain control of his emotions. He pushed away thoughts of what Ron was saying both with his words by the implication of those words. He pushed away thoughts of just what the Wizarding World was doing to him and Hermione. He pushed away thoughts on just where were the people that supposedly cared for and were there to protect him. Where was the Headmaster. Where was Remus or the rest of the Weasleys. Where were Hermione's parents.

All of this, he pushed away. He focused instead on that little spark that was Hermione. That connection that had always seemed to exist between them, that had seemed to be a part of them since that first moment when a bossy, bushy-haired girl had burst into his cabin on the train, asking about a toad. That pinprick of awareness that had grown into a spark and a sure knowledge of the girl ever since they had kissed.

Finally, the rage had quieted, the anger had abated, and he found his mind filled with concern and love for the girl that even now stood beside him in all things.

For another two hours testimonies were given, and evidences presented. Neither Hermione nor Harry were given a chance to present any sort of counter arguments. As far as the Wizengamot was concerned there was no defense for what they had been merely accused of. The accusation was enough. The mere thought that they, a half-blood and a muggleborn, had participated in the deaths of two purebloods was enough to guarantee the acceptance of their guilt.

That was even before their supposed best friend cast aspersions upon every aspect of their characters.

Fudge stood there, trying to look the part of an elder statesman, and utterly failing. His hands trembled as he opened the document, and looked down at it. Then he looked around once more.

"The Wizengamot has reached a consensus and decision. The accused are both convicted of their crimes and have been sentenced to death this day. In light of their ages, the Wizengamot has decided that they will be spared the indignity of the Dementor's Kiss and instead be cast through the Enoch Veil, where their crimes and souls shall be judged."

Fudge looked down at them, a hint of sadness on his face, as he continued speaking. "It pains me to see such two young people being sentenced in this way, yet the Wizengamot has spoken and its judgment carried out immediately."

There was a rumble and twitch, and space in front of the two teens opened. From the black chasm that it opened unto rose a platform.

In the middle of the platform was a stone arch. There were a series of glyphs that were etched into the stones, arcane symbols that even under the suppression chains Harry could feel as they pulsed with power.

A dirty, grey curtain hung in the arch. It shimmied and twisted slightly, as if blown by a wind even in the still air of the courtroom.

Harry could swear that he could hear a whispering sound coming from the curtain. An almost audible hissed conversation. It sent chills racing down his arms and backs, calling goose-flesh to the surface of his skin.

Glancing over towards Hermione, he saw that she was staring at the veil seemingly terrified of the thing. She was chewing on her lower lip, a sign that she was nervous or scared.

His voice was a cracked whisper. "In this word or any other, I'll love you, and stand with you, 'Mione."

Her head snapped towards him, and as she looked at him, her features softened, and a small sad smile appeared on them. "And I'll love you and stand with you, always and forever and a day."

They were both harshly pulled out of the chairs and to their feet. and pushed towards the arch. Hermione stumbled slightly, but Harry reached out as much as he was able to with the chains still binding him, and grabbed her.

He threaded his hands through hers, and there was a flickering flash. Gold and silver cords flickered into existence, wrapping around their hands and up their arms.

"Separate them!" Fudge yelled out. His voice quivered with shock, and Harry glanced around the room seeing that shock repeated on the faces of the audience and other members of the Wizengamot and even the two aurors.

His eyes cut over towards Hermione. "Any ideas?"

"It was those promises we just made," she replied. "Magic decided that we're married."

As the aurors moved forward, Amelia barked out a harsh response aimed at Fudge. "Don't be stupid, Cornelius. We all know what those cords are and mean, and none can remove them but those two. I find this whole situation despicable enough as it is without seeing this _august body_ making a mockery of what those cords mean."

There was a murmur of approval to Bones' words.

The aurors pushed them forward, and together, hand-in-hand, they walked on; as brave as any Gryffindor.

Harry stopped just outside of the arch. Staring into it, still almost able to hear the voices from the other side.

He concentrated, and realized that the silence charm must have been applied to the chairs, and not to them.

Lifting his gaze, he focused on Fudge. "Here's hoping that you're right and that I'm just a delusional kid. After all, there was a reason that there was a prophecy in the hall with mine and Voldemort's name attached to it."

There was the usual shrieks of outrage at the mention of Voldemort's name. A reaction for the first time caused Harry to laugh at the stupidity of the wizards that surrounded him.

As Fudge's mouth opened and closed in shock, Harry pushed them from his mind, and grabbed Hermione.

He quickly kissed her, holding her tightly against him with his free arm, even as her free arm wrapped around him.

They were still kissing when the aurors pushed them into the veil.


	29. Other Exits

**Part of the appeal of fanfic (at least for me) is the ability to see what you can do to the characters. How they can be stretched and twisted and shoved into new scenarios. Basically, all hail the Crossover! The previous chapter titled 'Exits' is a start of that. The problem is that there's so many possible endpoints that it becomes hard to choose just one. And there's so many possibilities for how the insertion of a Harry Potter into another story line could change it or improve it or even destabilize the second plot. **

**I mean even if it's just limited to stories where the characters have some type of portal, the sky is still the limit. X-Men have the Siege Perilous and Limbo's "Stepping Disks," the Stargate, The Guardian of Forever, the Wardrobe to Narnia, the bricked door of Coraline, and the list goes on and on. **

**And then we can add in those stories that are in places where fantastical things could just happen. Places like the Ringworld or The Land from the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant or even Oxford University from His Dark Materials. **

**And of course places like Cephiro has both. There is a portal (Tokyo Tower) as well as the fact that fantastical things can and do happen in Cephiro. **

**Thus, I was stuck with a way to get characters somewhere, but a glut of places to put them. Which meant I tossed out multiple versions. Thus you can view each of these bits as the ending scene to the previous chapter. In truth, I'm not certain which I like the best, but I've always rather enjoyed Star Wars... **

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**Marvel**

* * *

The Siege Perilous.

For millennia it had been a gateway to another existence. A forced refresh on a person's life, on their existence. A way to escape pain and suffering without the need to shuffle off ones own mortal coil. What was known was that it would appear in different places for different lengths time. And that walking through it allowed for a new life. One freed of the expectations and the memories of the old. It was also useful as a scrying gem: a way to see the past, the future and the might have beens.

It's creator was lost to the midst of time, but it was known that it was ancient when the Asgard walked among men the first time. It was a part of legend when the first brick was laid in what would become the Hanging Gardens.

Of course, since it worked outside of time as a linear construct, it is quite possible that it had not actually been made yet.

When the X-Men moved to Australia, they brought it with them; a gift from a grateful Roma. Most of the time it appeared as a rather gaudy jewel; a large princes cut ruby with a gold mounting. On occasion it would change size, becoming a mirror sized stone and on occasion a full doorway. When it was full sized is edges contained a series of odd carvings. Things that were almost letters but not quite pictures.

For the most part though, the mutants left it alone; they dismissed it merely as one more oddity in their lives; lives which were already filled with such oddities.

Thus, they were quite surprised when it expanded to full size on them. At least that it had done so unexpectedly

The five mutants, Wolverine, Havok, Dazzler, Polaris and Psylock, all stopped what they had been doing to focus on it. It seemed to twist in upon itself; a writhing sensation that was slightly nauseating to watch.

The crystal in its center flared brightly, then seemed to fill with smoke. Wind whipped up from nowhere, and pushed at them.

And while these mutants had seen people enter the Siege Perilous, they had never seen anyone exit it before today.

But that's what happened. A pair of teenagers came tumbling slightly through its doorway.

Two teenagers more focused on themselves, and their kiss, than on their surroundings.

"Uhm, excuse me?" Havok said; his voice polite, but confused, even as he glanced quickly at his teammates.

The two teens ended their kiss, and the girl made an embarrassed squeaking noise.

"Hullo?" Came the reply from the dark-haired boy. His voice was a soft tenor and held a southern England accent.

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**Stargate **

* * *

In a sub-basement of a United States Air Force base that just happened to be built into the core of a mountain, there stands a metal and stone ring.

This ring, has a series of glyphs etched into its face. Symbols that denote various pieces of the night sky. In addition to those symbols are nine chevrons.

This is the Stargate.

The people who currently use it, know that if you lock in seven of those chevrons with the appropriate symbols, then it will create a stable wormhole between this device and one very much like it on a different planet within the galaxy.

If you add in an eight chevron, that allows the network to span outward into other, more distant galaxies and worlds.

They still had no idea on the exact reasons behind the ninth chevron. It was an enigma to them. Something unknown and unknowable.

Which was disturbing to these people of science. They believed in the physical sciences with a passion of hard won beliefs and work. They knew that any mystery could be solved, and that any trouble could be overcome with the application of science, intelligence and hard work.

They have met beings whose technology bordered on the realm of magic. Beings which are worshiped across hundreds, if not thousands of worlds, as gods. They have met creatures and aliens whose race and memory step back into the times before their sun was even a burning star in a third-rate protogalaxy that would one day be known as the Milky Way. These people have even met entities who have left the embrace of mortal physicality to take up existence as beings of energy, thought and emotion; beings that now exist outside of time and the laws of physical consequences.

They have met these beings, and in most cases fought against them and won. Their knowledge of, and belief in, science was founded in hard won battle, and grounded in the struggle for the survival of their world, species and way of life.

Of course, despite what they know. Despite what they believe in their heart of hearts. Physicality, science, is not always the answer.

Sometimes, there is another truth out there. Something greater than them. Something bigger.

There are things that even the Ascended do not know, cannot explain, and ultimately fear.

And sometimes, those things are just waiting for the right time to enter existence. Sometimes, they are just waiting for the next second, the next expectation, they wait for that next sense of supernatural awe in which those things can reach out and grasp the world and twist.

Sometimes, those things, even use science to do so.

Thus, it is, that on a certain Tuesday at 3:24 in the morning, that the stargate activated itself.

Energy flared into existence, a crackling hum of power that was more felt than seen or heard. Red lights flashed into existence above each chevron for a moment, before those elements stilled.

Alarms within the base blared into existence, hall lights reduced themselves in brightness by roughly forty percent, while red warning lights began flashing. A harsh voice rang out across hundreds of speakers, "Unscheduled, off-world activation."

The ring of glyphs began spinning; a harsh, stone grinding noise which acted as a curious offset to the still blaring alarms.

The first chevron locked into place. The red light above it began to glow balefully.

Then the second chevron.

A squad of soldiers entered the room. They rushed behind a series of barricades designed for just this purpose, and raised their rifles to their soldiers.

As the third chevron locked into place, thin leaves of metal iris closed over the opening in the middle of the circle, and the alarms died throughout the base, even as the warnings lights still strobed.

The fourth chevron locked into place.

Then the fifth.

Then the sixth, and seventh.

The sounds of safeties being clicked off clattered throughout the room.

To everyone's surprise, the gate did not activate. It did not generate the storm of energies, and tortured space-time with which a stable wormhole was generated from.

Instead an eighth chevron was locked into place.

In the control room which overlooked the gate, an additional four soldiers entered, watching the events as they took place on the floor beneath them.

Silence hung heavy across everything.

Finally, the ninth and final chevron locked into place.

Energy thrummed, and twisted. Space and time became something physical, appearing almost like trapped water, as it turned and twisted and writhed in the opening created by the ring.

The metal leaves that were designed to cover the event horizon, were ripped away when the energies flared forward, and pushed ahead, towards the soldiers and the control room.

Then the energies fell backwards, and seemed to twist outwards away from the control room.

Finally, everything stilled.

The gate stood there, glorious in its active state. The wormhole's event horizon appeared like a captured puddle of water that stood upright. A shimmering, shining mass of energized space-time.

There was the crackle hum of transport, the not quite audible hiss of something traveling through the wormhole on its way to them.

When the two beings emerged from the horizon, it made the same sound as when someone pulls their boot from thick mud. A squelching, sucking sound.

Everyone watched the two on the arrival platform. They were lost in their own world, total focused one on the other, and they were draped in chains. Heavy black chains that seemed to be covering some type of robes.

The soldiers were all confused. They had seen many people and beings arrive via the gate. Some had been chased by energy or projectile weapons fire. Some had to be carried. Some were running or jumping away from some destruction or odd, almost death. Most walked calmly.

This was the first time, that two people had stumbled through the gate as if pushed while in the middle of a kiss.

A pair that were far more focused on what they were doing, than on what was happening to them.

Finally, they separated, and the soldiers that were there got their first good look at the two people.

They were human, but that fact did not surprise them anymore. What did was how young the two were. They were roughly in their mid teens. The boy, had black, messy hair, while the girl had brown, bushy hair. A cord was tied around one set of their hands which even now were still clasped together.

Then, they turned and looked out at the room around them. They appeared startled, surprised. As if what they had come face to face with, was not what their expectations were to be.

The two quickly glanced at one another, as if each were weighing the others surprise as well.

Finally, they turned and looked at the gathered soldiers. The boy spoke, his voice, a soft tenor, held the lilting accent of someone raised in the southern parts of England, and a surprising amount of amusement.

"Well, this is not quite what I was expecting death to look like."

The girl huffed, even as she raised her hands, and by simple fact of the cord that tied them together, one of the boy's hands.

"Honestly Harry! They're pointing guns at us. You could at least pretend to be serious for that." The girl snarked at the boy. Her voice also held that same accent of southern England. Then she looked around at the soldiers, giving them a weak smile. "Well, hello there."

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**Star Trek**

* * *

On what is referred to as The Guardian's Planet, rested what appeared to be a torus-shaped stone. It stood roughly twice the height of an average human, and the edges itself held a slight glow, even as odd lights appeared to float in the stone matrix.

Suddenly, mist appeared to gather in the center. It thickened, becoming an almost solid fog. Then the fog began glowing as well.

Within moments, Spock, Kirk and McCoy stepped back through the Guardian of Forever.

The three friends looked at one another for a moment, before glancing at the stone again. There was a heavy, silent pause, as the fog continued to show possibilities and past events.

Then the stone spoke again. Its voice was deep and unearthly; almost timeless in its inflection and tones. "Time has resumed its shape. All is as it was before. Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway."

The three stared hard at the Guardian.

Before they could respond, Kirk's communicator chirped.

As he was pulling it out from its pouch, the Guardian twitched.

The fog that still showed images twisted and twitched; as if it were being pushed and pulled by some otherworldly power.

The Guardian spoke again, but this time its voice was confused and hesitant. "What is this? The gateway should not be opened!"

Then there was a pulse of something. A wave of energy and coldness.

Then the fog stabilized.

The image shown within the fog displayed two teenagers kissing in what appeared to be a dark, circular stone room. The boy had dark hair, and wore eye glasses, while the girl was brown-haired. They were dressed in clothes similar to those worn by the three officers in the past. The oddest thing though is that their hands were tied together with a gold ribbon. Two others, these adults in what appeared to be red robes, came closer and then gave them a hard push.

The two stumbled slightly, still kissing, and fell forward. Then there was another of those waves of energy and the two teenagers tumbled out of the Guardian.

They collapsed into a pile of limbs on the uneven ground in front of the device; their fall interrupting their kiss.

The dark-haired boy, glanced around them, and his eyes fell onto the three Starfleet officers. His eyes grew larger as he seemed to stare at Spoke.

Then he spoke, in accented, but clear, English. "Are you a high-elf?"

At those words, the girl's head snapped up, and her eyes also widened, before narrowing tightly. "He can't be. He's green."

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "So's Dobby."

"Honestly, Harry," the girl huffed. "High-elves and house-elves don't really share the same ancestor. House-elves are descended from brownies."

Kirk lowered his communicator. "Who are you two?"

The Guardian spoke. "They are from outside of time and space. They do not belong."

The two jumped slightly, and twisted around. The boy spoke. "Did... did that stone just speak?"

The girl's head swung back towards the three and then around them, before looking into the sky. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I think we have bigger things to worry about than a talking stone."

Harry glanced towards her, and noticed she was staring upwards. He followed her gaze and found himself looking at the sky and the three moons which seemed to fill it. He scrubbed at one eye, but did not lower his gaze. "Oh, bloody hell..."

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**Star Wars**

* * *

Yavin 4

Anakin Solo stood on the top of the Palace of the Woolamander. One of the temples which he was most familiar with, after all he had dreamed of it for years prior to meeting Tahiri, and then they had both rescued the spirits of the Massassi children who were trapped within the Golden Globe.

He stared hard at the odd building that had replaced the Great Temple of the Jedi Praxeum. For as long as he could remember, the Great Temple had been a stone edifice, massive and almost unchanging. Now, it had been replaced with what Vua Rapuung had called a Shaper's damuteks. One of the Yuuzhan Vong's coral like buildings. Anakin knew that it was as alive as any other thing which the Vong used, despite the fact that he could not feel it within the Force.

He also knew that that was where Tahiri was at. She, he could feel.

And she was in pain.

He grimaced slightly as another wave of that pain washed over him. He pushed out with his sense, trying to help her.

Then the feeling was once again gone.

He shook his head, and climbed down from the top of the temple. The next day, he and Vua Rapunng were planning on sneaking back into the compound, a mission where they were hiding in plain sight. Vua as a disgraced Shamed One and Anakin as one of the more standard slaves.

Anakin did not particular like the idea, but he did not have a better plan.

With a sigh, he climbed through a window, and dropped the three meters to the floor of the main chamber. This was always an odd room to Anakin, even years later, he could feel the reflections of the ghosts of those Massassi children. It was an almost afterimage of pain and suffering that twisted the Force.

But that was when one was standing in the center of the room. There was a slight depression that was often filled with water, and the Golden Globe had hovered above that.

What was odd to Anakin was the similar circle depression on the western-most wall. This was a circle of stone which held odd symbols on it. These were not the harsh slash-like letters of the Massassi alphabet, nor were they the flowing elegant script of the Sith language. These were things he did not know; symbols that did not make sense to him.

He glanced around the room, and was in the process of leaving when he felt the Force tremble.

A wave of energy that twisted and writhed, and shattered against his awareness.

A wave of energy that seemed to pulse from circle of stone on the wall.

He watched, as some of the symbols began to glow. A flare of light and the Force. One symbol. Then a second. Then another. Until thirteen different icons were glowing. They shown with an greenish light that teased his Force senses.

Suddenly, there was another of those waves of energies. An almost scream in the Force as the air seemed to catch fire within the confines of the stone circle. Energy swirled, and twisted and finally pulsed with something that was almost joy.

Anakin stared dumbstruck at what appeared to be a pool of water on fire that was hanging on the water. He could feel the Force as it writhed within the pool, as it twisted and whirled and danced.

Then two figures fell out of the fire. Their presence in the Force was a burning, shining beacon, that sang to him. Of course, they were too engrossed in their kiss to notice him.

There was another of those pulses of energy and the pool of water disappeared with a flare of light, and the whoosh of air filling a vacuum.

He glanced down at the two people in front of him, and blinked. They were two teenagers, roughly his own age. The boy had dark hair, while the girl's was a brown color. They were also wearing what almost appeared to be Jedi robes, though they were shackled and they had an odd gold and silver ribbon wrapping around the hands that were holding each other. Ribbons that seemed to sing in the Force a song of acceptance and joy and love.

Anakin nudged the boy with a foot. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

The boy looked up, and blinked. Then he said something. Words filled with a harsh, hard consonant and odd tones and inflections. If Anakin had not been able to feel the boy's confusion, he would had been certain that those were quite negative words being spoken.

The boy and girl shared a look, and then glanced around the room. They tried to stand, but with the shackles that were still around their body they could not quite manage it.

The boy muttered something in those strange tones.

Which got the girl to reply. Her voice, quite pretty on its own, came out commanding.

The boy replied, and Anakin could feel his contrition and amusement.

After a moment, Anakin shrugged and knelt down next to the two teenagers. He looked at the chains, and felt them within the Force. He blinked as he could feel them within it, could feel the drain they were imposing on the two teenagers. But, he also knew how they worked.

He reached out, and touched one of the strange icons on the right cuff around the boy's wrists. In response, all the cuff's sprang open. The boy gave him a quick smile, and Anakin repeated the process for the girl's cuffs.

The two quickly stood, and Anakin followed. The girl was babbling slightly, still in that odd language.

Anakin again asked. "Who are you two?"

This stopped the girl's babbling and she looked at him. Then she once again glanced around the room, frustration laced her Force presence.

Then the boy reached over to his left arm and appeared to pull a stick out of nothing. A stick that writhed in the Force, one that almost sang with energy.

The boy reached over and touched the girl's lips with the end of the stick. Then he said something in those harsh consonants. And with that, the Force flared; energy burned at his awareness, almost overloading his senses.

The girl looked at him, and gave him a smile. "Now can you understand me?"

Anakin blinked. "Uh... yeah..."

And then there was another of those blinding flares of Force energy. Anakin blinked, and looked towards the boy again. Watching him lower the stick from his own lips.

"Hi, I'm Harry and this is Hermione. Are we dead now?"

The girl huffed. "Honestly, Harry."

Anakin blinked and focused on the boy. "I... my name's Anakin. What.. how did you get here?"

−−− − •••• • •−• | • −••− •• − •••

−−− − •••• • •−• | • −••− •• − •••

**Ringworld/Known Space**

* * *

Louis Wu stared at the objects around him. Even after everything he had seen or done in his long life, the things that were hanging on these walls were new to him.

First, there was a stone arch. It was on a platform and roughly the same height as Speaker-to-Animals. Surrounding it were a number of skeletons, some dressed in robes, others just discarded, almost dust bones. The most recent one appeared as if it had stumbled through the arch just a few centuries ago. A desiccated mummy of a man, which wild black hair. Many of the skeletons had chains around their wrists.

Then there were the strange symbols which were painted on the various walls. Some of the symbols appeared to be painted on with a brownish red paint, that Louis knew was very old, dried blood.

After turning around again, he looked up at the doorway. It was situated in the wall, close to the ceiling. Nearly six meters from the ground where he currently stood.

He turned back to the arch. Something about it, called to him. Almost like whispers.

There was a thud. He glanced that way and saw that it was Speaker. The Kzinti's massive bulk seemed even larger down here at the bottom of this room. A moment later, Nessus floated down, and settled to the ground with a soft sigh.

"We should leave this place," came the stereophonic voice.

Speaker sniffed. "I find myself agreeing with the coward. This place has an ill feeling to it."

Louis nodded slowly. He knelt down next tot he newest looking mummy and stared hard at it for a long moment. "I think I can understand. There's something off about this room."

He picked up a thin stylus that the mummy had been holding. It was roughly twelve inches long, and had stylized carvings on it. He frowned, as it looked, and even smelled, like a piece of cyprus.

"What is that?" snarled Speaker.

Louis looked up, and noticed that the cloth that was in the middle of the arch started twitching. There was a defined breeze coming through it.

And he could distinctly hear the whispers now.

Suddenly, two kids appeared in the middle of the arch. They were locked together, kissing one another and appeared dressed in robes very similar to the ones that the mummified man was wearing. Though these two children had shackles on their own wrists, as well as a gold and silver cord tying them together.

He blinked.

The kids stumbled to the ground, the fall breaking their kiss, and sending them sprawling into a mass of limbs.

After a second, the boy bounced to his feet, and took a defensive position over the girl. At least attempted to do so. He was hindered by his own chains, as well as the cord that tied one of his wrists to the one of the girl's. Then he paused. He was staring straight at the puppeteer. And pointing.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Louis frowned in thought. The boy was speaking in English. English with a very heavy, but familiar, accent.

The girl was slower in moving. She did not stand, but rather sat herself up straight, while using her free hand to rub at her hair. A pretty chestnut color, that held a significant number of wavy curls.

"Language, Harry," she said in an almost, rote, automatic way, using English laced with that same lilting accent.

"I am a Puppeteer," replied Nessus. "And you two must be dangerous criminals to be chained like that. I say we leave, and leave them here."

Louis frowned, and glanced at Speaker; for a long moment, and not for the first time, he wished Teela was still around.

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. We'll get those chains off them, and then we'll all get out of here."


	30. Harry Potter, Private Investigator

**Harry Potter, Private ****Investigator**

* * *

**31 October, 1621 hours**

In a less than affluent section of London, there existed an office building. This office building had existed since the mid-1950s. Too old to be considered a proper office for many of the newer companies, and not nearly old enough to be considered a landmark building. It's old and run down. Just shy of being considered dilapidated.

Probably the most interesting aspect of it, was that it had thirteen floors.

It is not the thirteenth floor that makes this building of interest though. Rather, it's a small, two-room suite on the ninth floor. The front room was a reception area. It contained three uncomfortable chairs, and a receptionists desk that looked like it had not been used for at least two years.

The second room of the suite was not much different. There was a desk, and a few filing cabinets and then a pair of slightly more comfortable guest chairs.

Yet, in this second room was what made this particular suite, of this particular building interesting. That point of interest was a man. He appeared as aged and worn down as the building. Too old to be called young, but not quite old enough to be considered a 'senior.' His hair was primarily black, though there was a decent speckling of gray mixed in. He wore eye glasses that would have been in fashion a decade previously. His clothes were well worn, but cared for, and cut along those classic styles that never seem to go away.

Once, years previous, he had been called the Boy-Who-Lived. Then, he was called 'The Chosen One', before that was shifted to 'The-Man-Who-Conquered.' Even today, he had trouble not self-identifying as 'Freak' thanks to his loving relatives.

But his name was Harry James Potter.

He sat in a half broken chair, leaned back, staring out the dirty window. Beside him was the desk; whose surface was cluttered with old food packages, unpaid bills, and a few old newspapers.

As well as a bottle of whiskey, currently roughly a third full.

His hand rested on the desk, idly playing with a tumbler which contained two fingers of said whiskey.

Since he turned eleven and discovered just what night this was, he had always hated it. Of course, he did not exactly have any pleasant memories regarding Halloween even prior to his eleventh year.

After all, it is hard to have pleasant memories regarding a holiday that you spent in a cupboard under the stairs. Which had been his room prior to that particular year and all the oddities and strangeness which had begun then.

He let out a sigh, and scrubbed his face with his free hand before taking a sip of the whiskey. It burned harshly, and he fought off a grimace.

Once upon a time he could have afforded a good whiskey.

Of course that was before he had destroyed the evil that was responsible for his parent's death, and was trapped into the schemes of a manipulative old man who had plans regarding the wizarding world and Harry Potter's place in it.

This man has suffered for the wizarding world. He had been ridiculed and tortured and reviled, even as he struggled against the evil which ran rampant through that society. But, what was saddest of all, is the simple fact that the five years immediately after his defeat of a Dark Lord were the darkest, coldest and most miserable five years of his life.

And that included the years he had spent being beaten and thrown into his cupboard without dinner for days at a time.

_One big happy Weasley family._

For him it was a dark thought. One filled with pain and the thought of potions and controls. He could not prove that he had been poisoned into the marriage, but the fact that six months after he was married, the feeling was gone was highly suspicious. He could never find any proof, either for himself or for Hermione.

Of course, he divorced Ginny. He knew he did not love her, and wanted less than anything to do with her. Hell he thought she looked like his mother.

And of course, those brilliant wonderful brains in the Wizengamot had given most of his estate to the pureblood bi...witch.

Even now, a decade later, the anger in his chest thrummed with that thought. He had fought and bled and even died to do away with that bigotry, only to find that it was still there, and still strong and still alive and and still corrupting magical society as a whole.

After the divorce, there was fundamentally nothing left. Worse, Ron had sided with his sister and had even gone so far as to forbid his wife from speaking with Harry.

They had all been friends since they were eleven, and the arse had taken Hermione away from him by fiat. If not potions.

Worse, with the artificial feelings concerning Ron's sister gone, Harry knew what he was feeling towards his best friend; the one person, the girl who had always stood for him, stood up for him and most importantly beside him.

He sighed and took another long pull from his glass.

Since he had wanted nothing to do with the ministry, and nothing to do with the wizarding world, and Ron was keeping Hermione from him by force of will, there was nothing left for Harry to do but go muggle.

He hoped that old goat liked that. He hoped that there were lemon drops in hell that the old man could choke on.

The urge to throw his tumbler against the wall was nearly over powering.

It would not have been the first glass which he had lost that way, especially on a Halloween night.

The door opened, and Harry shifted in his seat to look that way.

It was a couple that appeared to be in their mid-sixties. They were dressed nicely; too rich-y for this particular neighborhood. He stood roughly six feet tall, and wore a nice suit; dark charcoal and simple, clean lines. There was a splash of bright blue in the guise of a tie around his neck. Curly hair, that was more gray than brown covered his head. The woman was probably barely five feet tall, bright eyes shimmered with some emotion, and she had wavy brown hair that seemed to bounce with her every step. Her dress drew his attention though. It was simply made, but of a nice fabric; there was something motherly about its cut and styling. Yet, what really drew his attention, what focused it on that dress, was the periwinkle blue of its coloring. That brought a sharp ache to his chest, a pain that was as still alive today as it had been the last time he had gotten to talk to _her_.

To Harry, they looked almost the picture perfect example of a pair of grandparents.

The man spoke; his voice soft and calm and was an interesting mix of both a London and an Australian accent. "Harry Potter?"

Harry sat his drink down onto his desk and shifted around to face the two. There was something familiar about them. He knew them from somewhere. Had met them at some time in his roughly thirty years of life, but could not place them.

Still, they were here for something. He knew this. Everyone that came to him was looking for something or someone. It was what he did. He found things or people or knowledge.

And he was very good at it.

So, he just smiled at the the pair and gestured towards the chairs in front of his desk. "Yes, I'm Harry Potter. How can I help you?"

The man helped his wife settle into the seat and then took one for himself.

"My name is Wendell Wilkins, and this is my wife Monica, and we need your help finding someone."

Harry's heart clenched in his chest. It was a hard battle but he was able to keep the shock from his face. At least he hoped so.

Wendell and Monica Wilkins.

Those were names he had not heard in a long time.

They were the names that Hermione had given to her parents back during that disastrous seventh year. His mind raced at them introducing themselves as Wilkins, he had thought that Hermione and Ron had gone to Australia and recovered her parents' memories and had then brought them back to England.

Of course, thinking back, Harry realized that he had not seen them at Hermione's wedding. But had just assumed that was a wizarding ceremony and that she had a muggle one at some other time.

Harry pulled out a notepad and picked up his pen. One good thing about leaving the wizarding world was he no longer had to deal with quills.

"You're in the right place then."

Monica smiled at that.

His chest twitched. Her smile was so familiar, it was an identical to the one that he remembered Hermione using back in fourth year.

"We're so glad that you think you can help us. When we were looking at the UK-PIN website and its list of associated investigators, we found your name and something just made us stop and accept it as the right person."

He gave them a tight smile. Part of him suspected why this was the case, but he was not going to open that particular can of worms.

Wendell spoke up at this point. "Anyways, we were looking through some old belongings, and discovered this picture."

At this point, he placed a photograph onto the desk in front of Harry. It was of a young girl, and what was obviously this couple. It was labeled: Hermione, age 4, Wendell 26, Monica 25. Again, Harry felt that clenching in his chest. A pain that seemed to hammer at his stomach in perfect synchronicity with his heart rate.

"Imagine our surprise," Wendell continued. "When we discover that at some point we apparently had a daughter that we could not remember. We had moved to Australia roughly fifteen years ago, and had a daughter about fourteen years ago. One we named Hermione because it was the name that we had long ago decided that we would name our first born daughter."

"After the Greek myth," Harry murmured. He had heard that particular story many, many years ago.

"Yes," Monica replied with a smile. "Very good, Mr. Potter. Most people assume it's either the Shakespeare play or _Letter to Hermione_."

Harry stared at the picture. Fighting to keep from crying.

"Why do you want me for this?"

"Because from what we've heard, you're the best. You produce results. You find what many people believe to be unfindable. And we believe that you are the best to deal with some of the more... specialized requirements, and statutes of secrecy, that we find ourselves with and in."

"The two of you know about the wizarding world, and that I'm a wizard."

"Yes. It was a shock, but we also somehow expected it, when Hermione got her letter on her eighth birthday."

Harry sighed, and rubbed at his face. "How much do you know?"

"We know that our first daughter's best friend was a boy named Harry Potter. We know snips and pieces of those years, but nothing relating to our older daughter. We know that we were obliviated as we had some healers down in Australia check us over last year when we found that picture. We don't know who did it, but whoever it was effectively stole our real names, and our daughter from us. We want you to find out who, why and the whereabouts of our daughter."

Inside Harry cursed. This was as bad as he feared the moment he heard their names. It was a job that he could not afford to not take, while at the same time, it was a job that was all but guaranteed to send him deep into the wizarding world making this a job that he could not emotionally afford to take.

"Even before I get started, I can tell you quite a bit. Her last name, and your original surname by the way, was Granger. She was highly involved in the fighting during the second rising of Voldemort, as she had been my best friend for years at that point. She told me that she had memory-charmed the both of you, and sent you to Australia because the two of you knew too much about the two of us, as well as the fact that the muggle parents of many muggleborns were even by that summer turning up dead."

Harry waved his hand, and conjured an additional two tumblers. He splashed more whiskey into each, and passed them to the two as they sat and stared at him.

Wendell drained his quickly, and then poured himself another serving.

"What else can you tell us?" Monica asked, her voice shaky and weak as she sipped at the whiskey.

Harry took a sip of his own whiskey. "I know that she and her boyfriend at the time supposedly went down to Australia to retrieve the two of you, and that she was supposed to do something to return your memories. I was still in the hospital when they left, and fairly depressed when they returned, so I didn't get the chance to talk to her about the trip. Within a year, we were both married to our respective Weasleys. In fact the pressure to marry started within weeks of them returning."

Harry glanced at Wendell, and saw the almost rage on his face. "The two of you were on the front lines of a war, and then these... Weasleys pushed you both into marriages?"

He nodded at the other man. "At best. I have no proof, but I still believe that potions were involved."

He watched the stony expressions on both of their faces, and sighed.

"When they had first gotten married, Ron limited the amount of time that Hermione could spend talking to me. After my divorce, and the Weasley's decision to basically strip me of my inheritance and estate, Ron forbade all contact between Hermione and myself. I left Hermione with my contact information and went muggle."

"How could he _forbid_ her to contact you?" Wendell demanded. His voice harsh and strong.

Harry shook his head slightly. "It's the marriage contracts. In the wizarding world the man is the head of the house. His word is fundamentally law. Ron's always been somewhat jealous of me, and of the friendship that Hermione and I always had was just another aspect of that."

Harry looked down into his tumbler. He twisted the glass slightly watching the last bit of his whiskey twirl around its bottom. He looked up to see Wendell comforting his wife. He was whispering things into her ear, soft murmurings that Harry could not quite catch.

After a minute, she nodded her head.

Wendell looked up at him, his eyes were cold and harsh. "We'd like you to find her for us, Mr. Potter, and then find a way to get her out of that contract."

Harry set his tumbler on the desk and quickly followed that with his eyeglasses. Then he rubbed his face, and let out a tired sigh.

He heard Monica sniffle slightly.

Then he looked up, and nodded. He still felt drawn and beaten and wasted away. But he also knew he needed to do this.

"I'll do the job for you."


	31. The Straight Way Lost

**Within a Dark Woods, With the Straight Way Lost**

* * *

_But the stars that marked our starting fall away._  
_We must go deeper into greater pain,_  
_for it is not permitted that we stay._

_\- _Dante Alighieri_, Inferno_

* * *

A graveyard was the last place Harry Potter expected to be on this particular summer evening. Or any summer evening to be exact. There were not a lot of graveyards around Privet Drive, nor, to his surprise, were there many grave sites on the grounds of Hogwarts.

Yet, here he was. In a small family graveyard. Surrounded by roughly fifty monuments and headstones. Gothic monuments dedicated to a time, and a family that was well past. Some simple curved stones with faded writing while others were statues or icons. Including one massive stone angel that he had recently been tied to.

And of course, as bad as being in a graveyard at dusk was, the fact that he was not alone actually made things worse. His company was Voldemort and roughly thirty of his Death Eaters. Among them, those who were not captured and those who had claimed _Imperius_. Names he knew. Names he did not. Malfoy. Flint. Nott. Crabbe. Goyle. Rowle. Avery. Carrow.

These were physical embodiments of the ugly and disturbing aspects of the wizarding world.

These were the the supposed best and brightest, the elite, of pure-blood society.

A shudder raked his frame, thanks to the _Cruciatus_ curse which Voldemort had just lifted from him. His wand sang with magic inches from his hand. A pulse that thrummed and thumped in time with his heart. His hand reached out, and grasped it. Warmth. Magic and intent tingled in his fingers. Pin pricks of awareness that raced up his arm.

He struggled to his feet, his wand clenched in his hand. He fought to keep his balance; not wanting any of those he faced to see him sway with his exhaustion. The gray left his vision and he was able to focus on Voldemort. The man paced in the half-circle of Death Eaters. Harry paid no attention to the words; instead he watched the actions. The way the man swung his arm. How he moved in front of his minions; he strutted much like one of Hagrid's roosters. The cadence and way his words flowed.

Harry knew what this was. He had seen Vernon do the same thing at times. Voldemort was playing to the crowd. Grandstanding. Peddling the snake oil of his own greatness.

The crowd of Death Eaters erupted in laughter to something Voldemort had said. It was choreographed, an extension of Voldemort's will. Planned and precise. There was no mirth or real humor. They laughed because Voldemort wanted them to.

An almost exact thirty seconds of cold, useless, laughter.

Voldemort raised his hand, and the laughter cut off immediately; he turned to face Harry. His snake-like eyes flared with power and madness. A cruel smile twisted his barely there lips even as the slits that made up his nose seemed to flare.

Then that yew wand was once more pointing towards his face. Malicious and hateful intent flared as magic pulsed.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry responded without thinking, acting on instinct alone. His wand twisted through a motion, even as he yelled out the first spell that came to his mind. One he had been studying up on just a few days before.

"_Portus_!"

Blue energy flickered from his wand, and slammed against the bright, living green of the killing curse. Magic flared, and spat golden motes of light in all direction. For a moment, phoenix song rang out. Streams of magic twisted outwards. Magic flowed around them, a whirlwind of energies and light. It settled, showing them held within a golden dome.

Absently he noted one of the Death Eaters fling a curse towards the shield. Bright green. The curse hit the shield and spun there for a moment. Then it shot back the way it had come. The Death Eater was washed with a green aura for a moment, before he collapsed to the ground.

Harry felt a surge against his magic. A pulse that drew his attention back to the streams of power that connected his and Voldemort's wands. There in the center was a bulb of golden light.

Another few short notes of phoenix song, then the light turned white, a burning bright star where their two spells connected. Harry's wand trembled, and he noticed that the light was not as pure as he originally assumed. In the center there was a dark bead of something. Instinctively, he knew that that was not good for him. That that dark bead should be as far away from him as possible.

He willed that bead to flow away from him, and to his surprise it did. Slowly, it moved back down the stream of magic. A slow march, away from him, and towards Voldemort.

Harry's wand shuddered under the load, straining against the weight of the magic which flowed from and through him.

Still that dark bead inched away from him. Absently, he noticed that Voldemort was still staring where their spells had connected, that he was watching that blinding ball of light which still spat golden sparks.

There was another flare of phoenix song.

Then that dark bead touched the tip of Voldemort's wand.

Magic snapped and snarled. Arcane energies whipped around them, surging, with anger and aggression. The white bulb pulsed, and a ghostly figure appeared. Cedric. Another pulse, and this time it was the old man from Harry's vision from that summer.

A third pulse, and it was some woman that he did not recognize.

A fourth, and there was his mother. She almost appeared solid, but she was washed out, without color. She appeared and felt flat to all his senses.

A fifth pulse and his father appeared. He too had that same flatness; like he was almost there.

"Be strong, Harry." His mother said as she gave him a soft, sad smile. "Remember we love you."

"We'll distract him," his father said, a sad look etched into his eyes. Pain twisted in his chest as he considered his parent's appearance, and just how young they looked. In fact, Ron's eldest brother Bill appeared older. "But it will only be for a second. You must be ready."

Cedric nodded towards the lump that was his body. "Take me back to my parents, Harry."

Harry blinked, and nodded.

Harry looked at the Voldemort. Fear twisted the other's expression. His eyes were wild as they looked around at the ghostly figures. He struggled with his wand, trying to twist it away, and remove the flow of magic. And failing.

The after-images twisted towards Voldemort. Harry did not know what they had planned, but knew it was about to happen. They began to rush forward, moving with the same gliding motion that dementors used.

Then magic screamed.

It was a pain that lanced through his head, and twisted at his heart. An agony that made the cruciatus feel like a gentle breeze. His muscles clenched, and he threw back his head to scream. His every sense, every nerve felt like it was being twisted and ground into dust. Magic itself was shards of glass that was being ground into his chest, and raced down his arm.

The shades of his parents and the others twisted and blew away in an unfelt breeze.

Absently, he noted that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were all writhing on the ground as well.

He fell to his knees, and let the magic fade from his wand; ending the spell he had kept going in order to tie up Voldemort's wand. As the magic faded, so did the pain.

But that white circle still remained. It spun on its axis, becoming wider and flatter. Slowly, it reshaped itself into a disk, even as it lifted off the ground.

Again, there was the pulse of magic. This time in expectation. The sense, the knowledge, that something was coming.

Still, the disk spun in the air. Then slowly lowered.

Harry watched, as a pointed something appeared from the top of the disk. It glowed with bright yellow energies that were almost flames as they flickered around the pointed tip.

Slowly, the disk kept falling. Revealing more of the pointed object that Harry now recognized as a sword. Then the cross guard appeared. It was ornate with three distinct spikes, and a large, blood-red stone immediately beneath the blade.

Holding the sword, was a hand. The fingers were long and thin, feminine, despite the ragged nails.

Still the disk lowered.

The hand continued into a well-shaped arm, that was still feminine in appearance.

Harry then noticed a second hand. It was also upraised, held in an odd position: two fingers clenched, with the pointer and index fingers pressed together and pointed skywards. These nails were pointed, almost claw-like.

Finally, the crown of a head appeared. Blond hair, whipped and slashed, caught in a wind that Harry could not feel. Harry was not certain, but he almost thought he saw a pair of horns among the hair, as it twisted and twirled around her.

The arm holding the sword, had a metal band on her bicep. Intricate runes were carved across its face, some of which were glowing brightly with power.

Finally, her face came into view. Pretty, but gaunt features, that he knew would appear quite delicate if she had a few more pounds of weight on her. Bright blue eyes that seemed to glow with power, and full lips that moved with whatever she was speaking. He just assumed it was the words to a ritual. The right side of her jaw had a yellowing bruise. If he had to guess, he'd say she was the same age as he was.

And the disk continued lower.

It revealed that she was in a sleeveless top, made of what appeared to be some type of linen. There was the swell of breasts, and then the jagged bottom edge of the shirt. As if it had been ripped away.

A toned, flat stomach was next. There was a slashing scar that ended at her belly button, but twisted up and away towards her back. This was followed by another piece of clothing made from that same linen material; this time either a skirt or a pair of shorts.

She was sitting cross-legged on open air though. The skirt or shorts tucked around her to preserve her modesty, but still revealing a lot of long legs.

Finally, the disk settled to a rest on the ground. Still, the light pulsed from it, highlighting the girl, giving her a somewhat sinister quality, despite her almost angelic features.

There was another wave of magic. The disk disappeared, gone as if someone had flipped a switch. At that same moment, the girl dropped the foot or so to the ground. An act which sent her limbs sprawling into a pile. Her sword slipped from her fingers, and there was a subtle pulse of magic as it disappeared. Harry blinked, and quickly averted his eyes with a blush, as the way she had fallen revealed just how short- and loose- her top was. As well as the fact that she wore nothing beneath it.

Silence settled once again; heavy and oppressive. There was a dark, waiting quality to this silence.

It was broken by a low groan of pain. In multiple voices.

He glanced around, and noticed the sheer number of groaning, Death Eaters. He also noticed that Voldemort seemed to be recovering. He blinked for a moment with indecision. Torn. He did not know anything about this girl, nor how or why she had appeared in this graveyard during this fight. But he also knew that he could not leave her to the mercies of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. He had read what they routinely did to young, non-pureblood women and girls that they had ran across.

He darted forward, and hefted the girl into a standing position.

Her voice, a light soprano, whispered words that he did not recognize. Her voice was slurred and thick; Harry assumed it was a result of her tumble. Or her appearance in a glowing thing. "Что? Kto?"

"Come on," Harry hissed in a tight whispered voice. With that, he began dragging her away and towards Cedric's body. "We don't have much time."

Two steps. Three. Five.

He faltered. A frown marred his features as some of the lessons from his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had taught flared into his thoughts. He could hear Moody's gravelly voice as he discussed various tactics of fighting other wizards. How one should always strike when and where their opponent was weakest. How the only rule in a fight was that you were to survive. This melded well with a thought he had internalized while reading a muggle science fiction book the previous summer: it was not enough to win a single fight, but one should always attempt to win all the future fights as early as possible.

With those thoughts ringing in his head, he paused. He turned and looked at his foes. He knew they would kill him without hesitation. That that had been Voldemort's intent and purpose here tonight. The fact that they were functionally incapacitated did not matter. They would attempt to kill him in the future. They would attempt to fight with him at some other point in time.

He knew he had to try and win all the future fights as well. Or at least as many of them as possible.

He gestured with his wand. "_Incendio_!"

A stream of orange and red fire erupted into existence. There was a whoosh of incoming air, as the stream of flame snaked outwards, away from Harry. That almost liquid fire reached the Death Eaters, and seemed to caress them. He waved his wand back and forth a few times; ensuring each and every Death Eater received some attention. Agonized screams reached him, along with the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh.

His lips tightened, and without really thinking or considering his actions, his wand was once more twisting through a motion. A kind of clock-wise corkscrew, with a jab at the end. As his wand moved, his voice rang out. Strong. Decisive. "_Bombarda Maxima_!"

A blob of white light pulsed away from his wand. It looked like a golf ball of coruscating white energy as it flew through the air. As it reached the were the Death Eaters were thrashing about on fire, it slammed into the ground in the midst of the group. And immediately next to Voldemort.

For a moment, the ball flickered there against he ground. There was a small rush of something inwards. A pulling of power and fuel, that gathered closer to the ball. Without warning, the fire, energy and smoke-along with dirt and Death Eaters-exploded outwards. A thunder-clap reached out and almost knocked him backwards. The girl in his hands yelped, and gripped him tighter.

He grinned at her, and then turned away, once more heading towards Cedric's body. Once there, he dropped to his knees, and let out a long sigh.

The girl looked at him, and then loooked around. Confusion evident on her features. She spoke English this time, with a distinct Russian accent. "Who are you?"

"I'm Harry Potter. What's your name?"

"My name is Illyana Rasputina. Where are we?"

"I'm not sure," Harry replied as he shrugged. Then he gestured towards Cedric's body. "We were kidnapped from our school. And we need to head back that way before those Death Eaters get their acts together."

Together they glanced towards the various smoldering mounds that were moaning in pain.

"Illyana?"

She looked at him. Her blue eyes impossibly bright and large.

"When the cup gets here, you have to grab onto it? It'll take us back to my school. Allright?"

She nodded her head. He could see the confusion that rested deep in her eyes, and Harry wondered if that was confusion over the cup taking them to the school, or just the situation she found herself in as a whole. Harry knew she was a witch. He could feel the magic in her, and she had not reacted in any way when he had performed spells. But that did not mean that she knew what a portkey was.

He gave his head a quick, hard shake, trying to focus on the task at hand. "_Accio_ cup!"

A cup, one made of silver and glass and gave off an ethereal, almost eerie, glow, came flying out of the darkness of the graveyard. As it neared, Harry cut the spell. The cup dropped to the ground, and rolled to a stop next to them. He reached down and grabbed onto Cedric's body,and then looked at her; his hand hovering over the cup.

A quick glance towards the Death Eaters. One of them was struggling to his feet.

Harry turned his attention back to Illyana, and found himself staring into those large blue eyes. He gave her a smile; one he hoped was reassuring. "Let's go."

Hesitantly, she reached out. Her hand wavered for a moment. Then, together, they grabbed onto the cup.

As usual, it was as if someone had reached down and stuck a meat hook into his stomach and then pulled.

Illyana screamed. It sounded like a mixture of pain and surprise.

Magical energy roiled and roared around them, twisting them through space-time. Then spat them out onto their destination.

As soon as they appeared, a band began playing.

They tumbled to the ground in a lump of limbs.

Illyana vomited. Harry understood; he felt that same urge himself. That had been the most unpleasant Portkey ride to date.

Harry let go of Cedric's body, and stood up. He knew he must have made an interesting sight; beaten, and shaking slightly with cruciatus aftereffects. One sleeve of his tunic was ripped away, and a long knife wound twisting down that arm, still dripping blood.

His appearance, coupled with the fact that he came back bearing a dead body and a girl no one had ever seen before (who just happened to be dressed in torn linen that barely covered anything) meant that Harry was not surprised that the band trailed off playing their surprise in surprise. Most of the crowd was talking to one another. A harsh drone that reverberated in the background.

Cedric's parents screamed his name and rushed down from the stands.

Harry turned and looked at Dumbledore. Memories from the night his name came out of the goblet twisted in his heart. He remembered how the adults were bother certain that someone wanted him dead, and wanted to leave him in the contest in an effort to catch whoever entered his name. For a moment, a long one, Harry felt an overwhelming urge to send that _bombarda _curse towards his headmaster. Instead, he cast a quick sonorous onto himself, so that Dumbledore would be able to hear him from where he stood with the other judges. It also amused Harry that all of the visitors and students in the stands would also get to hear.

"Here you are Dumbledore. The bait in the trap to figure out who put my name in the goblet. Where were you though? Were you not watching your bait? Or were you not expecting me to actually return?"

Dumbeldore walked towards them slowly, his attention flickering between Harry, Illyana and their still clasped hands.

He stopped a few steps from them. "What happened tonight, Harry?"

"Cedric and I was taken to a graveyard where Peter Pettigrew killed Cedric, and then resurrected Voldemort."

And with that, the crowd began talking louder. There voices strained, and filled with panic. Dumbledore grimaced slightly. Fudge was suddenly there, whispering harsh, terse words at Dumbledore.

Then a hand fell heavily on Harry's shoulder; he glanced into the heavily scarred face of Mad-eye Moody. The man's tongue darted out, wetting his lips in an obvious nervous tic.

"Come along there, Lad. We'll go on up to the castle and have a talk about things. I need to hear in your own words what happened here tonight."

The hand on his shoulder slipped onto his upper arm and began dragging him along. After two steps, Moody glared at Illyana. "Why don't you stay right here, Missy."

That irked Harry for some reason, a surge of annoyance and anger flickered in his chest. He gave his head a harsh, angry shake. "No, she's staying with me."

Moody's false eye rolled around once, and then seemed to pin him into place. It stared hard and focused at him. Again, the flicker of a tongue. "Don't give me any lip, boy."

Moody's apparent nervousness sat ill with him. He felt that same twisting sense of apprehension that he had felt while watching Wormtail advance towards him with the ritual knife. In almost a single movement, Harry shrugged his shoulders and yanked his arm away. "I'm not your boy. I'm taking Illyana to the hospital wing."

He had taken two steps away from the crazed ex-auror when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. It was a similar feeling as the one that allowed him to dodge his cousin's surprise punches, or the bludgers during a Quidditch game. He spun around to see the bright red curse flying towards him.

Illyana's free hand snapped out. Harry could feel power gathering. A power that almost felt like magic. It was both instantaneous and took what felt like forever.

The tips of her fingers glowed, and she flicked her hand. A white disk appeared, maybe two inches in width, and flew forward. It stopped directly in front of the curse.

To Harry's surprise, the bolt of magical energy disappeared when it hit the white disk.

Another flick of her fingers, and another surge of power.

A second disk appeared directly behind Moody. The stunning curse flew out of that disk and slammed into the back of the professor. The man collapsed to the ground, his human eye wide with disbelief even while unconscious.

Harry watched him where he lay for a moment. Then turned his attention to Illyana.

"How'd you do that?"

"It's what I do," Illyana said even as she shrugged her shoulders slightly. Harry had to admit that he liked the sound of her voice. "Piotr turns to metal. Katya turns to ghost and Storm controls the weather. I create and control stepping disks."

"Huh," he muttered as he watched her for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders, not really understanding what she had been talking about, and turned back to his DADA professor. "Think we should take him to the hospital wing with us or just leave him here?"

"I say leave him here. Maybe waking on ground will make him less rude."

He chuckled slightly, and gave his head a shake. Turning away from the unconscious professor, he began leading her up to the castle and the hospital wing where hopefully Poppy would have something for the slight tremors that were still occasionally racing through his body.


	32. And Love

**...And Love**

* * *

Harry scrubbed at his face for a moment. He could feel a slow ache crawling across his joints; an ache which twitched across his back and settled deep into his legs. Even at fourteen, he had old pains that reminded him of old injuries. His back, knees and right arm had always ached during the Scottish winters; especially this time of year as evening turned into night.

He had gone to Madam Pomfrey once, and only once, to complain about the pains and aches. To his surprise, she had almost laughed him out of the hospital wing, stating that he was too young to have arthritis. At the time, he had not known what arthritis was; he had just known that winter made him hurt. It still did.

So, he knew better than to go ask for something for his pain. Instead, he sat on the cold floor, nestled into one of the many alcoves found throughout the castle. This particular one just down the hall from the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. The stone wall at his back felt oddly safe; there was a comfort in the knowledge that nothing, nor no one, could sneak up behind him. Having his back covered was a one of those hard lessons that he had learned from living so long with Dudley. He glanced left and right, ensuring that there was not any other students close by.

He was eminently grateful that there was not.

For a long moment, he thought that feeling over. He considered that gratefulness, and realized that he hated his fellow students. They were fickle and fair-weather; willing to believe the latest lies about him for good or ill; and unwilling to step up and think for themselves. And the thoughts of other students, made him realize, with an odd sense of perverse satisfaction, that none of his fellow students had had the "Potter Stinks" badges on in the past few weeks; not since the day after the first task. Apparently, out-flying a dragon meant that he no longer stunk.

And of course, that reminded him that where the dragon's spiked tail had caught him was now just another slow ache that deepened as November lost ground to December.

The clock tower chimed; a clear, and surprising deep, bell which reverberated across the stones, and for a brief moment seemed to fill the castle with its clear note; a clarion call to action and attention. A sound that indicated the beginning and ending of classes and lunches. At this particular hour, It was a sound that could only mean one thing: curfew.

He grimaced and glanced down the hallway to the portrait of the Fat Lady. He had no urge to go into the common room. Had not felt the urge to spend time with his house-mates since his name had came out of the goblet in fact.

This had been true when they thought him a cheat. It had been true, when they all wanted to talk to him for doing so spectacularly in the first task. Harry was almost scared what the girls would do now that it was known they were having a ball this Christmas.

There was no one in the castle that he really, truly trusted at this moment in time. They had all betrayed him in some fashion or shape. Ron with his idiocy until Harry won the task. Hermione last year with his broom. McGonnagall's utter lack of presence as a Head of House. Then there was Dumbledore's grand design to utilize Harry as bait to flush out whoever had gotten it into their head's to attempt to kill him this year.

He closed his eyes, as he realized that the list of people that he wanted to trust, had only four names; and he did want to trust people. He wanted his friends to be there for him. But, in this here and now, half-hidden in an alcove, hiding away after curfew, he firmly felt that there was no one that he really trusted within the castle.

Of course, as that thought finished percolating through his mind, he realized that the Fat Lady's portrait was closing, and he could hear the soft rustle of clothing. Someone had left the common room.

And that someone was standing right in front of him.

He blinked with the realization that she was standing there. Numbly, he stared at her well-formed legs that seemed to be encased in the denim of her jeans; watched as her the trainer on her right foot tapped slightly. Jeans and trainers which marked her as a muggle-born, or at least muggle-raised.

Slowly, almost against his will, his eyes, traveled up those legs, and across her body, until he found himself staring into the worried, brown eyes of his erstwhile best friend. One of those he should trust, but also one of those he found it hard to do so. But, that's not to say that seeing her legs in those jeans was not almost awe-inspiringly lust-worthy. Some deep part of him just _knew_ that he'd be seeing those legs in those jeans again tonight. A thought made infinitely worse as he wondered what it would be like, what it would _feel_ like, to take them off her.

Quickly, he shoved those thoughts from his head. After all, she had a wild ability to seem to know what he was thinking with just a quick glance; and she was a scarily brilliant witch. Obscenely lovely, especially in those jeans, but quite scary just the same.

She gave him this small little smile that made his chest flinch; then in a motion that made him wonder just how much cat she still had in her after her polyjuice mishap in their second year, she shifted her position until she was nestled into the alcove right next to him. In fact, had she been any closer, it would probably be considered her sitting on his lap. The places where her body was pressed up against his were an unexpected, but somehow delightful, warmth.

Her hand reached out and grabbed his, and she threaded her fingers with his; one hand of hers clasping his. Harry looked at this, their joined hairs, resting against her knee, while her free hand traced patterns onto the back of his. She seemed to melt even closer to him, as she titled her head, until it rested against his shoulder. A smell of flowers and the vanilla of old books seemed to fill the air. It was a smell that Harry realized he quite enjoyed.

The silence around them deepened, taking on a hushed, reverent feel, as if they were hiding in the sanctuary of a church. Harry fought the urge to fidget; this was not something he wanted to end and somehow he just instinctively knew that fidgeting would cause it too. This was delightfully comfortable for him; almost sinfully so. Even the ache in his bones seemed to recede in the sheer warmth of her presence.

Time passed. It could have been five minutes or it could have been days. Harry would have had no way to tell; nor desire to. He was content and for the first time that he could ever remember, was at peace. This was something new and wonderful, and he knew that it had to do with the person that was pressed up against him. She brought this with her. She created it for him. It was an oddly disquieting thought.

There was a soft, almost ethereal sigh, and then she spoke. Her voice was an almost whisper, barely louder than her sigh, as if she felt the reverent quality of the silence around them and she was just as uneasy about breaking it as he.

"I'm here for you Harry, however you need me."

Those were the words she spoke. Technically, they were the words he heard; the words that entered his ears. But he _heard_ something different; the words seemed to enter into his head, and in some mystical fashion reassembled themselves into different meanings in his head and heart.

She had said "I'm here for you Harry, however you need me." but what he understood was "I'll be with you, however you want."

He thought hard on that. Both on what he heard physically, as well as what he heard with his heart.

He wanted both of the sentiments.

With a start, Harry realized that he wanted her.

His mouth opened, and words he did not plan came out. His voice was low and soft; that same almost whisper which she had used. "I think my uncle has broken me. I don't..."

The whisper trailed off into the silence. He knew he had not planned to say that; that he had not expected to say it. He knew that he had more to say; but no idea what he wanted to say. No idea what he needed to say.

He knew that she knew all this as well. After all, she always seemed to just know.

She squeezed his hand, almost painfully. The silence stretched continued to stretch out between them.

It grew from a heartbeat of that silence into something else. Something stronger.

Something that Harry _had_ to break.

"There's been so many times," Harry said, finally drawing the bravery, the strength, to break that silence. Even if he spoke in that same whisper. Almost afraid that saying these things louder could summon his uncle. "That I just wanted someone, anyone, to care. To let me know that they think I'm important. That I'm not just the Freak there to be beaten and then tossed into the cupboard like some broken, worn out toy."

Another heartbeat of silence, and then he did something he had never done before.

He told her everything.

Every dirty, dark secret that was his existence at the Dursley's. All of the abuse and the deprecations and the abasements. Every time he had been beaten and abused. From the first time he had asked about his birthday, to the time when he had done better than Dudley on a test, and ending with his punishment for vanishing the glass at the zoo.

An act which sent his feelings, his sense of self, tumbling into a jumble of emotional firsts.

For the first time, he felt unyieldingly vulnerable.

For the first time, he actually felt scared.

For the first time, he felt unburdened.

Again, the silence fell between them. It felt like a gulf. Like infinity in the space of a breath.

Harry waited. There was a huge part of him that was expecting for Hermione to huff, and storm away. Maybe waiting for her to go tell a teacher that he was out after curfew. He expected this to happen. He expected her to not believe him, or to go telling everyone his deepest, darkest secrets. He did not know which would hurt him worse, her unbelief, or her sharing.

To his unending surprise, there was another comforting squeeze of his hand, and then she was speaking. Her voice, low and in that same soft whisper.

"What they did... it was not because of you Harry. It was not your fault. They're... Your relatives are evil, vile people. And you are important Harry. To so many people. To the Weasley's and to Sirius, and..."

There was another of those infinite heartbeats but this one felt different. Neither spoke. Nothing moved. The only sound the crackle of the nearby torches, and their breathing. Unlike before, this was a silence that was pregnant with possibilities. A silence which highlighted the fact that this was a point in time where reality could topple one way or another. A silence which proved the existence of a divergence between two paths. A fulcrum of existence that hinged upon the completion of a sentence.

Harry blinked with a sudden epiphany. He had suddenly remembered another time when he had felt that way; another moment of silence that could have lead to a different path, a different now than existed currently. That moment was back at the end of their first year, he had the feeling that she was going to say something else right before hugging him. Something more. And that that something would have changed things between them.

It was an expectation of possibilities.

That expectation had scared him when he was a first year.

As a fourth-year, he found that that fear was still there. But almost more so, was the fear that she would leave those words unspoken. That he would never know what she had meant to say; that he would never hear her say those words.

He remembered the comfort of her squeezing his hand when he was confiding in her, and so he returned the gesture. A gentle pressure on her hand.

Her head lifted from his, and he shifted his attention towards her face; a face which was almost impossibly close. Tear tracks from his story were etched down each side of her face, and her eyes were bloodshot from those tears. It was the first time that he could remember that anyone had cried _for_ him.

In that moment, Harry realized that he had never really looked at his best friend. That he had never really seen her. If he had, it would not have been such a shock to him that she was as beautiful as she was.

He smiled at her.

Harry wanted her to speak aloud her thought. He needed her to say those final words. To give them the weight of reality. To breath life into that unspoken possibility with her very words.

Realization jolted through him at just how close she was, how close her face was; the fact that their faces were almost touching. Her eyes were impossibly large and bright; there was a sparkle in them despite their redness, despite the dried tears. Emotion flickered in their depths, drawing him in and losing him within them. His eyes flicked down momentarily, catching sight of her lips. Pink and full, and just there. Almost against his. Then his eyes were once more locked onto hers.

He could feel her breath against his face.

When she spoke, he could feel the words against his lips. They were so close, that each syllable spoken was an almost brush of the lips. "And... and you're so very, very important to me, Harry."

As soon as she finished speaking, their lips were touching. Emotion and possibility exploded within him with that kiss. It was an achingly sweet experience. Something he never wanted to end, but also wanted to experience time and again. For the first time, Harry felt connected to someone. For the first time, he felt as if he belonged.

And, as his ears heard the words, as his lips felt hers, all that his heart heard was twelve-year-old Hermione finish, "And love."


	33. His Life Now

**His Life Now**

* * *

"Harry, you're taking me out to dinner, tonight. The Starlight."

He blinked twice slowly, and then lifted his head from the file he had been reviewing. This particular file needed quite a bit of his attention as it focused on one of his tertiary income flows, this one from a magical silkworm farm somewhere in Australia. Apparently, there had been a sudden die off of the silkworms thanks to an infusion of something called a kookaburra into the region. Apparently, these kookaburras have a particular love for the taste of magical silkworms.

He focused on Ginny Potter née Weasley, his wife of two years. She was standing a few steps into his study, the one room of the house that was unequivocally his and the place where he focused on the business of House Potter. It was a comfortable room with a few bookcases filled with a mixture of novels, law books and other study guides for the various businesses which House Potter dealt with, as well as various photographs and other mementos from his time at Hogwarts. Things such as a picture of him, Ron and Hermione and one of the snitches that he had caught during his years on the house Quidditch team. Then there was a soft, brown leather sofa, which was thankfully comfortable enough to sleep on.

Harry still did not understand why he had to be the one to sleep on the couch when they had arguments.

The final bits of the room was his desk and the various chairs around it. This desk had apparently been in the family for nearly two hundred years. His father and grandfather had both sat at it and performed House Potter business at it. He fully intended his children and grandchildren to sit at it and perform House Potter business.

The particular argument when he had not allowed Ginny to redecorate his office, and get rid of the desk and comfortable sofa, had been loud and long and meant that he spent two weeks on said comfortable leather sofa.

As was usually the case, she was 'made up' for the day. Which basically meant that even at 10:30 in the morning, she was dressed in an expensive set of designer robes, and would probably change those before lunch and then again before dinner. Her hair was set atop her head in some type of artistic braid, that would have probably taken a muggle beautician two hours to prepare, while her face lacked the freckles which had adorned it during their shared Hogwart's years, a sure sign of expertly applied magical makeup.

He blinked again, trying to re-order his thoughts from silkworms and kookaburras and focus on what she was saying. Finally, he closed the file he had been reading, placed it onto his desk blotter and just looked into her brown eyes; which despite their almost whiskey coloring lacked any of the warmth which that particular drink could give someone.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a distinct lack of apology in his voice. "What?"

"Tonight. You're taking me to the Starlight for dinner. Make some reservations for eight."

He frowned as he shook his head slightly. "The Starlight? I know for a fact that they have a waiting list that's roughly three months long. Besides, that's a rather expensive dinner for just some random Tuesday."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he noticed the storm clouds gathering on the redhead's face. This was an expression that he was quite familiar with; having been on the receiving end of it a number of times over the two years of the marriage. Sadly, he had seen it prior to his marriage, on the face of his now mother-in-law.

Of course, at that time those expressions had been focused on people not him, so sadly he had dismissed them, and what those looks would mean for his, at the time, burgeoning relationship with the daughter of Molly Prewitt Weasley.

She crossed her arms up under her breasts, and then stomped one of her feet. He glanced down, and noticed that she was in what appeared to him to be new shoes. Again. For a moment, he wondered how much those cost him, and pondered if it would be worth the headache to put her on an allowance.

Then her voice was breaking through his thoughts; redirecting his attention from new footwear to what she was screeching about.

"You're the Man-Who-Won. They'll create an opening for you. And besides, this is not just some random Tuesday. This is Astoria Malfoy's first anniversary. You just know that he's taking her to the Starlight, so you can and will do the same for me. We have to been seen at the Starlight tonight. Think about it, Malfoy's going to take her there for an anniversary, imagine what it says about us, that we'd go there just because it's Tuesday."

Harry sighed as he bite back the thought that he wanted to respond with to her rhetorical question. After all, he felt it would say that they were showing off if they showed up there just to be in the background of any pictures of Malfoy and Astoria that made it to the social pages of the Daily Prophet.

Of course, he could never say that out loud.

"If I remember correctly," he started, his voice low and slow in an effort to not rile up her temper anymore that it already was. "Did we not go to the Dragon's Kiss just last Thursday? And for much the same reasons, except that this was Neville's and Hannah's third anniversary?"

She leaned down and kissed his cheek gently. A memory of them snogging passionately flashed through his mind, but he knew that with her being 'made up' for the day, she would be less than pleased if he tried to replicate that behavior. Actually, he knew that she would not be happy if he tried to replicate that behavior even is she had been wearing nothing but her dressing gown. After all, it was not appropriate behavior for a married couple of their station to be doing that in the middle of the day, or at least that was what she would say.

Somehow, he doubted that Hannah or Astoria would tell their husband's the same thing.

Then she turned from the room, calling out over her shoulder. "Eight this evening."

He sighed as he leaned back in his chair. This was the third time this month she had done this to him. Luckily, he was a major investor in The Starlight, so it would be somewhat easier, and less expensive, to get into than the Dragon's Kiss had been last week. He knew that at some point, this behavior would bite back, there was only so many times one can disrupt a business's schedule before they stopped being so accommodating. That was why the bribe to the Maître D' of the Dragon's Kiss had to be so hefty. She was quite tired of "The-Man-Who-Won" not being able to schedule reservations in advance like the rest of the population. It also did not help that the only person who Parkinson hated more than him, was Ginny.

He would consider it quite a different scenario, if these sudden dinners put her in the mood for some physical affection, but she seemed to just get colder and colder with every dinner out. Or social party or gathering. And the weeks surrounding the various balls she dragged him to every year were probably the worst times he had ever had. And that's saying a lot, considering he was raised by abusive relatives and spent the first ten years of his life thinking of a cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom.

And of course, he died just a little bit more on the inside for every one of these. He despised getting dressed up in his finest clothes and then being paraded around and in front of the crowd and the various newspapermen that would be out and about in front of one of the big restaurants of magical Britain. And of course, going to a muggle restaurant was something else that was apparently beneath their station according to Ginny.

Yet despite all of that, he penned a quick note, requesting a reservation at half eight, and then sent it off to the Starlight's manager. It was just easier to give in, and let her have her way.

Ten minutes later he got a positive response, and Harry put it out of his mind, as he returned his attention to the problems of kookaburras and magical silkworms.

That night at five minutes to eight, he was standing in their bedroom, staring at the door to Ginny's dressing area. She had been in there for three hours so far, and he wondered, not for the first time, why she demanded a reservation for a specific time and then constantly missed them. Luckily, that was a lesson that he had learned early. These days he always made the reservation for a half-hour after the time she requested, and knew that everyone at the various restaurants would agree with him about the original time the reservation was requested for. After all, they did not want her screaming and yelling in public anymore than he wanted to be in public with her screaming and yelling.

He also knew not to ask her how much longer. He had learned that each time he asked, she added five minutes. Though he had to use that the one time it appeared that she was actually going to be on time for a reservation based upon when she requested the time be set for.

Finally, at eight-fifteen, she stepped out of the dressing room, looking quite a bit exactly like she had this morning. Except that her dress robes were colored a soft blue instead of the dark green she had been wearing.

He gave her a smile and then offered her his arm. As soon as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he twisted slightly and disappeared from their home with a quiet pop.

With the suddenness only possible with apparition, they appeared a half-block away from The Starlight. This was in order to run the gauntlet of various photographers and other fans. He still did not know who routinely leaked his movements, or why there was always a crowd whenever he went anywhere with Ginny.

They moved with purpose through the crowd, only occasionally being stopped by the pushiest of fans who wanted him to sign something or bless their baby or touch them on the head. Luckily none of these were girls trying to get him to sign bits of their bodies. He thought Ginny was going to murder that one girl who had tried that last April, though he did think she had a rather attractive set of breasts.

Worse, every time he put up the (quite useful in his opinion) charm to ensure their images were smudged on the photographer's pictures, it would be pulled down within a few steps.

Finally, they made it into the restaurant, and were seated at the table.

What he wanted to eat was a steak-and-kidney pie, most likely with a nice bitter. Or maybe with a stout. But he knew that nothing as down-to-earth as that would be served here. He also knew that it would not be served at home, since both of those things were below their station.

He suppressed a sigh as he reviewed the menu, wondering what exactly Osso Buco was. Of course the few words beneath the entry did not help. He knew what truffle mashed potatoes were, or at least thought he did, and he knew what sage was, but had no clue what gremolada was. He still remembered the look Ginny had given him the one time he had dared to ask the waiter what something was.

He finally decided on a chicken dish. He at least recognized all of the words involved in that particular description.

Then he glanced up at Ginny, to note that her menu was still in the exact same place where the waiter had left it. He also saw that she was reading a letter. He was not positive, but believed the handwriting was that of Kingsley's wife.

He closed his eyes, and counted to ten slowly.

When he re-opened them, he noticed she was still reading, and that the waiter was standing there waiting for their order.

"I'll have the wood-fired, free-range chicken, please."

"Very good, sir, and the Missus?"

Harry waited for a moment, seeing if Ginny would respond or not. When he realized that she was quite lost in her own little world of social issues, he focused on the waiter again. "She'll have a salad. She's slightly allergic to shellfish, so something with shrimp might be best."

Harry saw that the waiter had almost laughed, but managed to not do so.

"Oh," Ginny said, quite suddenly as she looked up from her letter for a moment. As usual, she seemed to know that he had ordered for them both, even if she was not quite aware of what had been ordered so far. "And some Russian Osetra"

Harry grimaced at the thought. He had no real love of caviar, believing it to be rather salty and having an altogether unpleasant texture on the tongue. Ginny of course believed that it should be ordered whenever they were at a restaurant that served it.

It had not been explicitly said, but he had decided that she thought that it was something a couple of their station _should _do.

The fact that she rarely ate it either, lent a bit of credence to that particular thought.

The waiter nodded with a murmured comment, and then disappeared.

Ginny functionally disappeared behind her correspondence. It looked like it was from Tremblewhite's wife this time. He just hoped that there would be no formal dinner from that particular letter; in Harry's opinion, Jefferson Tremblewhite had to be the most boring member of the Wizengamot that Harry had ever met. Of course, Esther Tremblewhite was his complete opposite, that was considered in the fact that she was vivacious, out-going and popular among the other Wizengamot members and their families. In truth, she was the only reason that Trembelwhite's dinners were so routinely a part of society. It was just a sad fact of life, that when he showed up, Tremblewhite wanted to monopolize the conversation with him. It would not have been so bad, had he not been the owner of the Chudley Cannons and was as enthusiastic on the subject as Ron was. This was despite the fact that the Cannons still placed last on the boards, and Harry had really never followed any of the professional teams outside of a rare perusal of the sports page of the Daily Prophet.

Thus, their dinner at the Starlight advanced.

He slowly ate his chicken. Which was quite good, and most likely because Harry knew what all the words of the description meant. He really did not want to have to consider what Osso Buco tasted like. All the while Ginny read her letters or occasionally pulled out a communication mirror to chat with someone about some tea or social gathering or some other inane thing which Harry had no interest in and seriously hoped he would not have to attend.

Her salad, which Harry expected would end up costing eight or nine galleons, sat untouched. As did the caviar, which Harry estimated at thirty galleons. An obscene amount considering his first wand cost him a mere seven galleons.

Harry, despite wishing for a beer (of any type at all by now), managed to drink most of the bottle of wine himself.

Once his chicken was gone, he waved off the desert tray, and just asked for a post-dinner coffee. For just a second he was glad Ginny had focused on her letters instead of dinner. She was usually quite happy to order something with a lot of chocolate, and then a really expensive desert wine.

Which she would barely touch either of.

He finished his coffee and then looked around. The Malfoy's had disappeared at least twenty minutes previously. Hopefully, they had been seen here long enough to get them out of here.

He signaled, and the waiter brought over the check. After quickly reviewing it, he added a tip and then pressed his vault key into the appropriate spot to allow them to deduct the amount from his Gringott's vault.

"Ginny?"

"Hmm?" Came the distracted response.

For a moment, a tiny, itty-bitty really, piece of him wondered just what he had been thinking when he had rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets.

"It's time to go home."

This time, it was her turn to blink at him in slight confusion. She then lifted her head from the letter she had been reading and glanced around the room. Taking stock of who was there, and who had left since the last time she had looked.

After a moment, she nodded. "That sounds good. I've got a few letters to write."

Without waiting for him, she stood up, and took two steps before disappearing. He blinked, still not quite certain what to make of this latest behavior pattern.

He sighed, and wondered if he had enough time to stop at the Leaky Cauldron and get that beer he had been craving all night. Then thought better of it. Ginny would be expecting him, and she did not particularly care for him spending time at the Cauldron, at least not since Hannah had taken over it.

Pushing the thought away, he left the restaurant and then twisted in spot. Appearing moments later in the foyer to his home. He glanced around, and sighed.

He absolutely hated this room, and most of the others in the public sections of the house. The foyer though was the worst. There was nothing of him here. It was a bright reddish-orange color, with a table situated halfway down its length that had an incredibly ugly vase on its top. An ugly vase that always had these sticks in them.

Harry did not know the meaning of these sticks, but thought them the most ridiculous decoration he had ever come across.

And he still remembered the troll-foot umbrella stand that Walburga Black had just absolutely adored.

He slowly walked through the house, and neared the small sitting room that Ginny had taken over as an office. He glanced inside and noticed his wife sitting at a small writing desk, diligently working on some letter or something. Which Harry knew would ultimately mean another trip into society for him.

And he thought hard about his life as it currently was. This was the third dinner out in two weeks where she had ignored him in favor of reading her letters. The third dinner out in two weeks where she had ordered a number of things which she had ignored in favor of reading her letters. And as he thought and considered, he realized that those three dinners were the only ones he had taken with his wife, despite his being at home and eating and knowing that she too was at home.

He sighed as these things flashed through his head.

For a moment, he wondered about possibilities; about what he could have done different, and about what he could still change. Thoughts of Hermione and Luna and a handful of others that he had met over the years. He wondered how it had come to this, married to someone who apparently loved his fame more than she loved him.

As if she had finally sensed his presence, Ginny looked up at him. She smiled that incredibly fake smile of hers, the one that told him that she had something society for them to do.

"Oh, there you are Harry," she said, her voice lacking any emotion at all really. It was a tone of voice that he had used during business meetings with people who wanted something from him, but he had no true use for. "Esther Tremblewhite has invited us to dinner this Saturday."

Harry frowned as he thought over his own schedule, and what he had told his wife regarding this upcoming weekend. Then he shook his head. "No. We're supposed to meet Hermione and her parents for dinner on Saturday. She's been planning this for weeks. It'll be the first time they've been back to England since the war."

Ginny frowned at him. A sulky, petulant, ugly look.

"No," she said, turning back to her letters. She had apparently already dismissed him and his concerns. "That won't do at all. I've already told Esther we'd be happy to be there."

"But-"

"No, I said! You don't need to go have dinner with some other woman and her family. That's not appropriate! And I won't be having it."

Harry frowned as he wondered just what was not appropriate about having dinner with one of his best friends and her parents. Especially since he had been spending less and less time with said best friend over the past five years since the end of the war.

For a moment, anger flared in his chest. He knew he deserved better than that. He knew Hermione deserved better than that.

"But-"

She bounced out of her seat. The expression on her face even harsher and uglier. She shook her head, a wild cascade of fiery hair.

"I'm not going to argue with you about this. You don't get to hurt me by running off to spend time with some other girl. We're attending the party on Saturday. End of discussion. Now, I'm going to bed; don't bother joining me."

She brushed past him.

Harry's chest twinged at her words, his anger collapsed into that dark place where it always did. Righteous indignation gave way to that almost needful desire to please those around him. He could still hear Arthur's soft voice telling him that marriage was a sharing, something that took work and where you would put your partner's needs above your own. That it was hard work, but ultimately should be a rewarding experience for two people in love.

Apparently spending time with his best friend hurt his wife. Slowly, he scrubbed at his face; wishing that the tension would leave his shoulders and wishing he knew what to say or do. Wondering how he could tell Hermione of Ginny's plans for them this Saturday.

As she slammed the door to their bedroom closed, he knew that this was his life now. Society events he despised. Being paraded back and forth between the cameras and the crowds. Lonely dinners, even when in her company. And worse of all, rarely, if ever, getting to spend time with one of the few people who had always been there for him.

This was his life now.

He was as imprisoned and entrapped as when he had lived at Privet Drive. There was no control over his life; rather he was left tugged from place to place by someone who knew what was best for him, regardless of what he wanted or thought or desired.

And with that thought firmly in mind, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Won, the Freak under the stairs, broke; and for the first time since he was nineteen months old, he cried. He cried for what could have been, and for what never was.

As his body trembled with his grief and sorrow, he wished for a single person to be there with him. He wished for a specific soul to be there to comfort him through this pain. He wanted her to be holding him, to be hugging him, and he desperately wanted to hug her in return.

And he wondered at what it meant that that person was not his wife.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm a happily married man, and I'm quite ecstatic that my marriage has no resemblance to the one described here.

Which of course begs the question, why on earth did I write something with such a dysfunctional marriage? And have no doubts that I've shown a dysfunctional marriage. It's a marriage that's already broken, and going downhill fast.

The answer to that why, is that I've gotten a few reviews complaining about the inclusion of Hermione as a prime focus in a number of these one-shots. Of course, the reason for that, is that I see Hermione as one of the better characters for Harry to be paired with. And a lot of that is the fact that this is how I see a marriage between Ginny and Harry working out. This is what I expect happened in canon. I believe that this is why the friendship between Harry and Hermione that's shown in the various books ends with them not even talking to one another on the platform in that epilogue.

I've known girls like Ginny. The ones that always want something new and shiny and they have to have things their way no matter what.

And I've seen what they can do to men that are strong enough to tell them no. How much worse would it be for Harry who was conditioned by the Dursley's and Dumbledore to put everyone before himself?

In my opinion, Ginny, as someone that has almost always gotten her way would tread Harry into the ground, grind him to dust, and then berate him for not being the 'hero' she expects him to be. That's the actions of the spoilled youngest sister that knew Harry would not be happy unless he was out fighting Voldemort.


	34. A Danger In Potions

**A/N:** After the depressing depressionnessness of my last post, I thought I'd do something a bit different. And it started with my thoughts on the connection between Harry and old Tommy Boy. We know lots of things are shared through Harry's and Tom's connection, the most important of which are feelings. We see Harry reacting to Tommy's feelings. But we never stop to think about Tom's side of things...

And also be aware that I'm currently re-reading _Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy_.

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**A Danger in Potions**

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a man named Tom Marvolo Riddle. As all men do, he started out life as a boy. Though quite intelligent, young Tom was a simple boy; one who grew up unloved, unwanted and somewhat mistreated in an orphanage in central London just a few short years before the outbreak of hostilities which was World War II. Well, one says, mistreated, but in those days it was quite an acceptable, and kind of expected to be honest, behavior to routinely beat the poor orphans, and most would have been sent out into the work force by the ripe old age of twelve.

Young Tom lucked out though. Shortly after his eleventh birthday, he was visited by someone inviting him to a special school. This someone was a man by the name of Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore.

Well, that is what the old man called himself. His mother had originally named him Albus Ulcerious Lincolnshire Dumbledore. But Albus, as a young man, thought that AULD was not quite right as initials for a man of (in his own mind at least) his staggering intelligence. Now, Albus was something of a idealist of a man, and believed that everyone would turn out great and lovely and smelling of lemon candies, just so long as their every sin and bad behavior was forgiven and any victims of their abuses were thoroughly punished for daring to stand up for themselves. And while in quite a few cases, such thoughts and behaviors would prove, well not helpful, they would not end up being a bad thing.

Unfortunately, Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore was a professor. Sure it was a professorship at a much beloved, and quite amazing school; as that school taught magic. Complete with shiny unicorns and sparkling lights from the magic wands. But the important thing is that he was a professor; which just happened to be one of the worst possible professions for one of those people who believed in unlimited second chances and that undeserved forgiveness can change people. The worst possible profession for someone like that would have to be Headmaster, but that is a story for the future.

So, young Tom went to school for his seven years. He learned the lessons of life that one would expect from the environments in which he was raised. Such that after the first of those seven years, young Tom was sneaky, mean, amoral and quite immoral as well, and he left the school after that first year with three goals which would rule his life. His first most sought after goal was to be immortal. His second most sought after goal was to rule the world. His third was to get to third base with Dorea Black. Regardless, he was firmly of the belief that he was special and that he was destined for his goals to be met.

Thus, once he finished his fourth year, he spent weeks, maybe a month or two, scouring the a school's library for the darkest magics he could find. He twisted his soul, well not that much, because it was already a rather shriveled dried and dessicated thing before he began learning at that so very special school. But still, he learned a way that one of his goals could be met, and ended up splitting off bits and bobs of his very essence, his immortal soul, and stashing those pieces in some random trinkets that he had picked up along the way while murdering and raping his way through both the magical and mundane populations of the United Kingdom.

He kept this up for a number of years until he came to a small house in the small town of Godric's Hollow in an effort to murder a young boy; one that was barely fifteen months of age. He was here to murder this boy, because according to a snippet of poetry he had heard, this young boy would have the power to vanquish him. Well, it was either that or the fact that he had never actually made it to third base with Dorea Black before she married Charlus Potter and he had them both killed. Tom was always very goal oriented. So, he strolled into the house, raised his wand and cast the killing curse. An action which was quite successful in vanquishing Tom; or more accurately, the quite illegal blood ritual of which the boy's mother tricked Tom into completing, managed to vanquish him. And just as the topping to the cake, the ritual destroyed Tom's original body in the process.

Thus Tom spent years as a wraith. Losing the last little bits of humanity, and sanity, which his upbringing, time being taught by Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore, and various dark rituals had left him. And to be honest, his upbringing and being taught by Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore did not leave much of either humanity or sanity.

So, after yet another of those dark, deranging, rituals Tom was reborn. Well, not so much reborn as given a body made from the Dark Magic version of baling wire, spit and duct tape (and generic duct tape at that, it was Wormtail who was 'Flesh of the Servant' after all). Sadly, not-quite-young Tom did not take into consideration of the fact that after spending those nearly fifteen years as a wraith (which included one additional disembodying as well as the destruction of one of his soul-holding trinkets) what came out of that proverbial womb was a rather crazy lunatic. A lunatic that had serious impulse control issues and a yearning to hurt everyone and everything.

Oh, and he had no nose.

But what would probably be his most important characteristic was the fact that he had absolutely no love within him at all. Truthfully, he did not have all that much to begin with. His upbringing being what it was. After all, if it was not the older boys at the orphanage mistreating him, it was the older boys at the magic school being downright mean. Unless Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore happened to see them (or worse, their victims fighting back); then they were just misguided souls, who needed just one more act of forgiveness and maybe a lemon gum drop before they understood that bad boys did not win.

What all this means is that Voldemort came back from his time as a wraith with no love in him. None. Zilch. Nada. Frankly, he hated everyone: his followers, his snake, his enemies, and ultimately, he hated himself.

In fact, there was such a lack of love within him, that the love Harry Potter had for his friends actually hurt him when Tom tried to posses the young adult. That particular love had felt like a thousand needles were put into both his eyeballs at the same time as being repeatedly kicked in the genitals. Or maybe it was the feeling of a slight sunburn. After so long in the wizardry world (and spending time surrounded almost entirely by dark-aligned purebloods), the concept of pain had gotten a little wishy-washy for him.

That possession attempt had occurred a bit over a six weeks ago now; and according to his spies in the Order of the Phoenix the boy and his friends had been taken to a blood traitor's home and were hidden behind those wards.

Now, this lack of love was quite evident to his followers and enemies alike. No one expected him to love anyone. Why even Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore admitted that maybe, just maybe, Tom could not be turned back to the light side with just one more lemon drop. Though the old man was holding out hope for the lemon sherberts. After all, that sherbert powder center gave that particular candy a wonderful and delightful zing. And Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore felt that anything that gave someone a zing would be perfect for bringing that someone back to the light.

As an unrelated fact, even after being a professor or headmaster at a magic school for roughly a hundred years, Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore had yet to manage to 'redeem' a single person. Even his sole "success" still self-identified as a dark wizard. But he knew it would take just one more act of undeserved forgiveness and maybe finding that right candy.

Thus on this summer morning, six weeks or so after what, to Tom at least, was an excruciating experience at possessing someone, he summoned not just his Inner Circle of Death Eaters but as many of his followers as he could get to come. He had something he wanted to tell them. And as odd as it was, he needed their help as well.

As they entered into his throne room, he glanced up, looking away from the note he had been writing.

"Good," the Dark Lord said, his voice a sibilant hiss. "You've arrived. I need all of your opinions on something. But first, McNair!"

One of the robed Death Eaters stepped forward before falling onto his knees and lowering his face to the ground. "Yes, milord?"

"Quick, tell me the name of that blood traitor Weasley's daughter?"

In his surprise, McNair performed an action that would have usually gotten a Death Eater tortured for a bit, or if the Dark Lord was in just the right mood (i.e. any one really) it might have gotten that Death Eater an up close and personal experience of the Killing Curse. That action was that he raised his head and stared at the Dark Lord. It could not be seen as he was wearing the usual mask but his mouth was hanging open slightly.

Finally, he managed to mutter, "m-milord?"

"Weasley's daughter! What's her name. He's the one in that muggle department."

Nott stepped forward. "Milord, I believe my son said her name was Ginny."

Tom's head slashed around, looking away from McNair and focusing on Nott. There was a crackle of emotion influenced power. "Has. Your. Son. Touched. Her?"

Nott quickly shook his head. "N-n-no, no, milord."

"Good," Tom hissed again, and then turned back to the letter.

Silence reigned, broken only by the scratching of the quill against parchment. The Death Eaters shared uneasy glances, but all knew better than to be the first to speak.

Finally, he looked up from his letter. Tom drew in a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. A moment later, he focused on his followers, he slowly moved his head from person to person, allowing his baleful red gaze to flicker across them all. Some of the younger ones in the back actually dared to shudder.

"I'm going to read you my letter, and you will tell me what you think. Is that understood?"

Again, he focused on each of them individually, holding their gaze with his own until they acknowledged his demand with a nod of the head or a murmured acquiescence.

Finally, he leaned back in his throne and lifted the parchment. And then he read.

"Dear Ginny,

"If you get this note you're probably wondering why. If you don't get this, it's probably because I got scared and then went and chundered. But I shall get to the point. I like you. I mean, I really, really, really, really like you. I've never felt this way about someone before. I mean, I used to almost feel this way about my Nagini, but she does not look nearly as good with red hair as you do. And she's gotten a bit shirty since I put a piece of myself in her. I don't think she loves me anymore. I want you by my side forever. And I have the dark ritual we need to use to make that true. We can use Goyle's boy as the sacrifice.

"But, know that I like you, and that I always will. And I don't think I'll be able to live without you. I think about you all day. How you looked at the ministry as you were beating up my minions.

"I don't know if you feel the same, but if you do, check the yes at the bottom. Or the no if you don't.

"Sincerely, Lord Voldemort."

He lifted his eyes from the parchment and looked out among his followers. People who had helped him on his rise to almost conquering Magical Britain.

And wondered why they were so quiet.

He frowned slightly and turned back to his letter. For a moment, he wondered if people still said chundered, or if people on the magical side of things had ever said chundered. That might have been something he had picked up in the muggle orphanage.

Finally after two minutes or so of no one speaking, and barely breathing at that, Snape stepped forward and removed his mask. "Milord, may I ask a question?"

"Yes, Severus, my most slipperiest of followers."

Snape blinked twice as he processed that compliment. He at least prayed that it was a compliment, and not a request. Lucius used to be called that, and everyone had heard about how Lucius serviced their Lord. "Did you write a love note? To Ginny Weasley?"

"Of course not! Lord Voldemort would never write something as mundane as a love _note_ to a goddess like Ginny Weasley. I wrote her a love _letter_. A note is passed by hand. I'm mailing this. That makes it a letter. It just means more. I do believe I love her. Her hair, I love that red color. Almost like flowing blood. If blood was an... orangery, gingery kind of red." Voldemort paused and looked off into the distance. "I wonder what her hair smells like..."

"Have..." Snape paused, and then glanced at the other Death Eaters. Finally he decided that there would be no help coming from any of them. "Have you ever met her milord?"

Voldemort stood quickly, and rushed forward. He grabbed Snape's robes and pulled him closer. "You're right Snape. You're my spy in Dumbledore's circle. You must introduce us! That is my command to you. Set up the meeting. Let it be known that she is my intended. And make that meeting a dinner. Italian maybe? And there had best be flowers! None of those lily things you like either. Those are crappy flowers. I want a real flower. Carnations maybe?"

Snape glanced over his shoulder at the other Death Eaters. He noticed Bellatrix making an odd sign; one that usually indicated that someone had lost their mind. Lucius just shrugged his shoulders. No one else even looked at him. Snape returned his attention to the Dark Lord.

"Milord, before I go and do that, may I check to see if you've been potioned with something?"

Voldemort released his grip on Snape's robes, and pushed him away slightly. "Do you not think I thought of that already? I woke up in love with that slip of a blood traitor. Of course the first thing I did was check for a love potion. It came back negative. As did a check for various charms or other spells. There is nothing in my blood. I am in love. And I know that she'll love me. I am the Dark Lord after all."

Snape bowed slightly. "Of...Of course, milord. If you'll excuse me, I'll... I'll just go discuss this with the old fool."

Tom waved him away. "Lucius! Where's that brat of yours?"

Snape hesitated, both wanting to know what was going to happen next, and yet somehow desperate (but unwilling) to get away. Not for the first time, he found himself hating himself.

Lucius dragged one of the lesser followers further into the room. Then with a strong hand on the back, forced him into a kneeling position. "Here he is milord."

Voldemort moved forward and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet. "Tell me, young Malfoy. Is Ginny dating anyone?"

Draco looked towards his father, who merely nodded his head.

"Answer me, Draco. On your head be it otherwise."

Draco quickly nodded. "I... I think she was dating the half-blood Michael Corner."

"Was?"

Draco again nodded quickly. Or actually, he had never stopped his nodding motion. "I...I remember Pansy saying something about them breaking up sometime during the spring. He started dating Cho Chang afterwards."

Voldemort pushed Draco away, and spun around, ignoring the teenager as he fell backwards in a rather undignified heap. "Alecto, you and your sister go and find this Michael Corner. I want him in front of me. And I want him alive. His family not so much. He must pay if he touched her in any way. Rodulphos, you and your brother find this Cho Chang. Kill her. And her family. On the wall of the family home, draw a heart in her blood. In the middle of the heart, put the letters LV a plus and then the letters GW. And bring back pictures!"

Snape finally left the throne room.

Voldemort sat back down on his throne, and picked up the letter. He sniffed deeply of the parchment, and frowned.

"Bella?"

"Yes, milord?"

"Do you think that I should get Nagini to put her musk on the letter? I want to make it special for Ginny, and it just smells like parchment right now."

Bella looked around crazily and then shrugged. "I..."

"You're a witch, which would you prefer? A letter smelling like Nagini or just parchment."

"...Parchment?"

Tom sniffed the parchment again and seemed to deflate slightly; had his skin not already been almost death-like in its pallor, he would have paled. Then he took a deep steeling breath and sealed the letter. He glanced around at the remaining Death Eaters, noting those who had gone out to fulfill his commands. With a negligent wave of his hand he dismissed the rest.

And with that done, he grabbed his letter and stormed off to the owlry.

He had a letter to send.

The first step in his newest most sought after goal: wooing the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

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**OMAKE **

I tried to include this in the above, but it kind of dragged the whole thing down. Basically, it just did not flow with the pace and tone of the rest of the chapter. But, hey, I wrote it, and I have this great place to put it so other people can read it...

* * *

Snape entered the kitchen of the Burrow. At the table was Albus and both of the Weasley parents. Luckily, there were none of the children around. He settled down at the table, and frowned at the other three, holding most of the glare for Albus.

"Albus, I am your potion's master. If you're doing something in this battle against the Dark Lord that involves potions do you not think I should be aware? Especially emotion influence potions."

As he spoke the words, he noticed the look of confusion on Albus' face as well as the flush on Molly's.

Albus spoke before Snape could reflect on just what those various looks could mean. "What do you mean, Severus?"

Snape shook his head.

"The Dark Lord claims to be in love with a girl. He's writing her a love letter even as we speak. He sent his followers out to kill this girls' ex-boyfriend and the ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend." Snape paused in his speaking and then frowned. A long moment of silence settled around them, before he broke it by sighing deeply. "And I feel stupider for having said that. I teach at a school filled with hormonal dunderheads, and am not as involved in the love lives of the students as I appear to be in the Dark Lord's."

Dumbledore stroked his beard, apparently lost in thought. Snape noticed that Molly had now paled, and was gripping her tea cup rather tightly.

After a moment, Albus spoke again. "Who is the girl?"

Snape turned to Molly. It was all he could do to not display an unholy amount of glee. Such would not be good for his image after all, even if none of the children were here to see it. "It's Miss Weasley."

And with that, Molly fainted.

It took a few minutes, but they managed to awaken her. Before they could ask any questions, Ginny entered the kitchen holding a letter. Behind her were Harry, Hermione and Ron. Snape noted that Harry and Hermione were holding hands, and that Ron look quite disgruntled with that particular situation.

Then he cursed himself for noticing, and Voldemort for getting him involved in such teenage drama in the first place. He had hated all of that when he was going through puberty. He had no interest in it now that he was an adult; no matter the train wreck this was turning out to be.

Ginny blinked as she noticed the people sitting at her kitchen table. Then she frowned and glanced again at the letter in her hand.

"Uhm, Headmaster, I was... well, I was expecting to have mum floo you about this. I... I got a letter from You-Know-Who..."

Snape sighed and lowered his face in his hands. He had hoped that someone would have stopped the Dark Lord from sending that letter.

Albus blinked. "And what did it say?"

"He... I..." Ginny looked back down and frowned again. She almost appeared on the edge of tears. "I... I think he's asking me... to be his... well, his girlfriend. I... I... Merlin, I can't believe I'm to say this, but I'm supposed to check 'yes' or 'no.' Think it might be charmed to let him know what I choose. Merlin, I feel like a first year again. You know, Colin gave me a letter that looked quite a bit like this back then."

"How," Molly all but cried; her voice loud, and heavy and filled with despair. Everyone turned to look at her. She appeared bewildered and confused as her gaze flipped between the four children. "I gave the potion to Harry! I mean, he's not supposed to be dating Hermione, she's perfect for my Ronnie. He's supposed to love Ginny. Not You-Know-Who! How on earth did the potion affect You-Know-Who?!"

Harry sighed as he settled into a chair, Hermione following his lead by settling into his lap. Ron stewed in the corner while Ginny, Arthur and Albus glared at Molly.

"And here I was hoping that the crazy Voldemort crap wasn't actually about me this time." Harry muttered just loud enough for them all the hear him. He gave a deep sigh, and then focused his attention onto Molly. The glare he was giving her was as harsh as any Snape had given him during a potion's class. "And just so you know Mrs. Weasley, we found out during one of the many, many 'accidents' that occur during my potions classes that behavior modification potions don't work on me. Physical or magical affects work just fine. Any emotional responses in potion form just don't affect me."

Silence settled over them. Well, not so much silence (as how silent can it get in a kitchen with a fifty-something woman weeping rather loudly in it) but no one was talking.

Harry and Hermione glaring at Molly. Ron glared at Harry and Hermione; in either a jealous rage or maybe hunger. Albus was actually scrubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other held those ridiculous half-moon glasses which he favored. Arthur looked like he was not certain which person he wanted to yell at.

Snape bit back the laughter that tried to escape. In his mind, he repeated the same two phrases over and over again in an effort to keep his amusement under control. _I will not enjoy these dramas. I will not be party to teenage love-based angst. _

The not talking and the glares, and Albus trying to rub away a headache lasted for about ten minutes. Ten long minutes of Snape repeating his mantra to himself. Yet, finally, he was certain that he would not break into laughter as soon as he began telling them the next bit. To his mind, just the fact that he would not immediately break out into laughter was a reason to tell them now; and there would probably be no better time to bring up his latest orders from Voldemort.

"Oh, and Albus," Snape began, and though he was not laughing, his voice was filled with a rather dark and malicious glee. "I'm to arrange a meeting between the Dark Lord and Miss Weasley. A dinner date. I'm afraid that he views her as his intended."

Then he turned to Ginny. "I do hope you like Italian?"

As Molly's wails grew louder, and Ginny's glare got even harsher, he could not help it, Snape laughed.

* * *

** (and a bit more Author Notes) : ** To be honest, this idea actually was a bit in my idea file related to REDUX. REDUX is a crack-fic. Things happen there, usually at Harry's prompting. Anyways, my idea was that for whatever reason, after the rebodification of Tommy, potions that affected a person's mental state would not have an affect on Harry, but would affect Voldemort due to the scar-link. And then Harry would have a tendency to abuse those potions. It was a nice little plan, where I'd start having Harry taking random potions without every mentioning it (i.e. calming/babbling/weeping/etc) culminating with him taking love potions for various people (Ginny, Draco, Hermione's cat, Snape and finally Dumbledore).

Sadly, I never actually wrote REDUX out...


	35. Of Hate And Love

**Of Hate &amp; Love **

* * *

Hermione Granger was on a mission.

She stormed through the halls, her robes billowing in her wake, and her eyes fixed ahead, focused on thoughts and plans that only she could see. A slight crease curled across her brow, and her jaw was clenched tight, as she struggled against the instinctive action to grind her teeth. She had caught herself grinding her teeth a number of times since Halloween this year, and she just knew her parents were going to be less than pleased with the damage it could have caused to her teeth. Still, jolts of anger shot through her; wild uncontrolled emotions which sent her magic eddying out of control. Her hair had frizzed up over the walk down from Gryffindor Tower, and the taste of a static discharge hung on the air around her. Her eyes, normally a warm, inviting honey-brown, were darker, almost the color of milk-chocolate with the edges tinged in sparkling gold; and all the while they seemed to glow with their own internal light.

As she walked the halls, her mind raced down multiple pathways, each as convoluted as the physical halls in which she roamed; there were hundreds of distinct lines of conscious thought all with one overriding goal: to save Harry. As she moved towards her destination, she made and dismissed thousands of ideas and plans. In the length of time it took her to storm down any given set of stairs she would think up and immediately dismiss entire swathes of magical theory, Her brain worked furiously, and her thoughts churned and roiled and boiled within her head.

As did the growing ball of distaste, and distrust, that sat heavy in her stomach, the dark emotions jangled her nerves and gave her hands an almost imperceptible shudder. It was an emotional acid; and it flared in her system the same way as drinking way too much coffee.

She knew that Harry should not have ever been forced to be in this tournament. She had found that particular piece of information two days after his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Since he was underage, it would require the permission of his guardians (both legal and magical) in order to compete. So, someone was forcing him to compete, and worse, to compete against _DRAGONS!_

And there it was. That was the source of her disquiet. That simple, and unforgivable fact. It was not just enough that he had been entered, but there was someone who was forcing things.

A person. Maybe more than one.

And it was those facts which left a twist of hate setting deep in her heart; an emotional aftertaste which she was not used to.

Yes, she had disliked a lot of things since coming to the Magical World. There was Malfoy and his inbred bigots. There was the apathy which most teachers took towards what Malfoy said and did. And she really disliked how useless Ron was in regards to studying, and the way he would make fun of her for liking to read and learn, and how the red-head would, and could, and did, so easily shift Harry into putting off his own studying.

Yet, now, now she had found herself hating; and this was not a simple hate. This was not a fierce, burning, ugliness that would flare up and then burn itself out into annoyance and distaste after a few hours. This was not a hate such as drinking lukewarm coffee or being insulted yet again by an inbred prick. This was nothing as simple and easy going or laid-back as that type of hate.

No, this was hate in the classical sense. A hate that was a cold, frozen clamp which clenched at her heart and stomach and soul. A frozen mass at the center of her very self, that in an instant could cause flare-ups of an all-consuming rage that burned away her conscience and focused her mind onto pathways dark and destructive. It was a diamond of feeling. Hard, impervious, and with the ability to cut so many things.

And this hatred, had many, many facets. Each face, had its own properties, and reasons and tensions.

She hated the Ministry for having the tournament in the first place.

She hated Voldemort for the hurt Harry had gone through.

She hated Magical Britain for being so backwards and vile, that it gave rise to people like Voldemort.

And she hated Dumbledore.

Oh, how she loathed that man now. The easy, awe that she had held for the man just last year, last _month_ even, was now a bitter, vile taste in her mouth. A jagged shard of pain which twisted and turned in her chest, much like someone rubbing a handful of salt into an open wound. She found it disgusting that she could have held _him_ in such regard as she had always done previously. For, he was both Harry's and her Magical Guardian. He was ultimately the one responsible for the hate and the pain and the life that Harry had to go through. He was the one that allowed the bigotry and idiocy and corruption to grow and fester here at Hogwart's and ultimately all throughout Magical Britain.

He was responsible for it all.

This she knew. She had followed the trails, from the Wizengamot through the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore had his hand in everything. He had sat in his ivory tower and shaped generations of the Wizarding World.

It was all on him. All his fault. His Greater Good.

Finally, she reached her destination. The massive doors to the library hung open before her. She stopped, and exhaled. She could feel her emotions and magic twitching across her skin, all but ready to reach out and smite any who annoyed her. She closed her eyes, and drew in another deep breath. Then, she exhaled, and as she did so, she pulled back on her magic, drawing it down tight into her. She forced it back into her self, not letting it, or her emotions, leak out. She could feel her magic coil around her, welcoming and cold, and streaked with a darkness that she felt deep in her soul.

She opened her eyes, and they were once again a honey-brown; but they were still cold and hard and glittered with a dark emotion.

She started forward again, and as she crossed the threshold into the library, she inhaled deeply, as she always did when entering this place. She could smell the library. It was a very distinct smell. A mixture of grassy notes with a tang of acids all underlaid with a mustiness, and almost as an afterthought to that was a hint of vanilla. It was a smell that let her know that the 'parchment' which the Wizarding World used was not real parchment at all; at least not in their books.

She exhaled again, and then drew in another breath. There was a time, just a few short weeks ago, when that distinct smell, a collection of dust and ink and aging paper and leather bindings, would, and could, calm her from any angers or moods. Libraries had always been a comforting place. Somewhere she had always taken an almost instinctive liking to; she had always felt at home and safe and comfortable in libraries. Especially the Hogwarts one.

Now, there was no composure. There was no peace for her in the books and dust and silence. Just the cold hard promise of knowledge; knowledge that she desperately needed in order to help Harry.

She turned, heading deep into the library, moving up and down rows and rows of books; and as she moved, her fingers ran across the leather bindings of the books. They traced the gilt and the gold and the stitching; her magic twisted across her fingers as she felt for what she was hunting. And as she focused on the magics inherent in the books, a taste of their contained knowledge, her scowl deepened and grew more and more fierce.

None of these were what she was looking for.

Nothing here was powerful enough to help them. Nothing here would be able to calm the burning, cold hate that ate at her sense of self. Nothing here would help her bank the furnace of her rage.

Sighing, she slipped around a corner. She stared into the Restricted Section. She could feel the alert wards tingling just inches away. She had been in there a few times over the course of her years here, she knew the types of books which were contained there in. These were dangerous books. They contained knowledge that most students did not need, nor could handle. It was doubtful that anyone actually knew all of the books that were in this section, but Hermione knew that there was a large collection of things considered the Dark Arts within. It was an aspect of the magic involved in the Library in that once a book was entered into the stacks, the Library itself would ensure that the book remained available. The most the teachers could do was restrict a book to the Restricted Section; they could never destroy it. Hogwarts would not allow it.

So, she stood standing at one of the entrances to the Restricted Section. There, hiding just a few short feet away, were books that were dark, and powerful. There, just out of reach, were books that called to her, that made promises to the hate that coiled itself around her.

She blinked twice, and then focused her intent and emotion. And then she moved her wand. It was an odd, counter-twist, that spun outward and then she flicked.

And then she felt the a dampening charm settle across the alert ward. Hermione knew it would not last long, so she moved forward. Her pace was quick, and smooth; in other situations she could have been considered a cat on the prowl. She was a huntress, searching for just the right taste of magic.

Her hand stopped on an older book. Its name had long since faded away from legibility. It's bindings barely taken care of. She grasped this book, and pulled it from the shelf, trusting the her charm would keep the alert ward from setting off any alarms. She closed her eyes, and then placed her hand on the cover, and felt with her magic. An itch appeared in her awareness, a sense of something off or different. Something alien. Without considering things, she pulled her wand and jabbed it towards the book, while muttering in Greek. There was a sharp snapping noise that sounded incongruously loud in the hushed stacks. Happy that the caterwauling charm had been broken, she felt the magic again. This time, there was nothing.

She looked at the cover of the book, her hand traced the shield and sword logo that had been embossed there, an almost tattoo in the leather that the book was faced with. Her fingertips paused lightly on an old brown stain. Allowing the book to fall open, she quickly flipped a few pages, and found a spell that could help. A few more pages, and there was another spell that could help.

She grinned, and tucked the book into her bag. She had already broken the charms that kept the book in the Restricted Section and the Library itself would not care so long as she returned the books to the stacks before the end of the year.

A few steps to the right, and her fingers had found a second book. It was the work of but moments to repeat the curse breaking on this book. After she was finished, she again inspected the book. This cover was soft and supple, and while it was leather she did not quite recognize the animal. She knew it was not dragon or cow, maybe it was pig she thought. Again, her fingers traced the legend that was etched into the leather, with some type of dark ink. It was an alchemical ritual circle, and to Hermione's eyes, the circle seemed to shift, and waver in and out of focus with the world. She allowed the book to fall open; to see an enhancement ritual requiring a human sacrifice. Distaste welled in her for a moment, but the hate and the rage quieted that.

She knew that power could be found here; and power was something that she needed. That Harry needed.

She flipped to a new page, to find the ritual to generate inferi. Another page, and there was a power-boosting ritual using a virgin's maiden-blood. Another page and a ritual on strengthening and enhancing the body.

Another grin ghosted her lips, and she shoved that book into her bag as well.

From the depths of everywhere, there was a chime. She blinked, and then glanced at her watch, noting that it was now four in the afternoon. Classes were done for the day, and supper still a few hours off. She glanced down the aisle she had been standing in, staring at the stacks and stacks of available books.

With another deep sigh, she turned away. More and more students would soon be entering the library now that classes were done, and she felt no urge to be caught in the Restricted Section without permission. Besides, she was supposed to meet Harry and help with his training.

She left the Restricted Section, taking down her blanketing charm in the process. As she walked out of the library, she considered the two books she had nestled into her bag. She knew that there was the possibility that she was opening herself up to corruption in the Dark Arts. That there was the possibility of losing her very soul in the rituals and spells found in books such as these. Damnation and pain could be found in these books, both awaited her, and called to her.

She knew this.

Yet, in the storming cauldron of her emotions, Hermione discovered that the thought did not repulse her. She accepted it. She would accept anything, pay anything and ultimately do anything for Harry.

That was a simple, immutable fact that she had accepted. She knew, that beneath the hate and rage that currently ate at her, there was another emotion. One that thrived brilliantly, and focused almost exclusively no her green-eyed friend.

It was love.

This was not a simple affection. It was not a familial feeling of brotherhood, or even close friendship. This was the irrational love of Romeo and Juliet. The passionate fire of Isolde and Tristan. The commitment of Victoria and Albert. It was an overpowering, fierce, devotion towards Harry that had at times scared her with its strength and focus. She felt his presence in her soul; when he was near, her magic sang and reached out towards his. And she could feel that his did the same towards her. This was an unconditional affection, without limits or constraints. It was _agape_; it was _storge_; it was _phillos_ and it was _eros_. It was all of those, and more. Ironically, it was that love, that pure, glowing powerful love, that drove her hate and her anger. It was that brightest of emotions which pushed her so far toward those dark and damning magics.

Love had often been called the most powerful force in the magical world; it could easily be defined as the empowering force that could drive someone to complete their dreams, to accomplish their impossible tasks, to succeed despite all expectations of failure. There were rumors of a room in the Ministry of Magic which was hidden away behind a locked door, whose sole purpose was to study and catalog love.

Yet despite all that, there were inescapable truths about love: Love revels in truth; Love is empowering; and Love is unending. Ultimately though, love is power.

It was an undeniable fact that love could make magic do things most wondrous. It could bind two people together forever. It could allow someone to generate spells that normally they would never be able to do. It could even grant someone great physical strength. In a world of magic, it is a literal fact that there is nothing that Love cannot do.

In all other worlds, in all other possibilities, love would exist between Harry and Hermione. Sometimes they would be lovers; and sometimes they were destined to be friends as close as siblings. But always they were to be together, and always there was to be love.

It these other worlds, in these other possibilities, the love that raged between Harry and Hermione could have saved everything. They would have been able to usher in a new age of peace and tolerance and understanding.

Together, with their love, they could have been, should have been, a bright, brilliant focal point for the light.

But, in this here, and this now, in this possibility, that was no longer an option.

All thanks to the manipulations and schemes of a foolish, old man; a failed and shuttered Leader of the Light. That future, was no longer possible. In making Harry fight, and risk his life in this tournament, he had made Hermione into who she was becoming. He had ignited that hate and that rage that held tight in her soul, he had kindled the fires of dark emotions that burned on top of her love for Harry. It was a never-ending cycle; the more she loved him, the greater that hate grew, and the more she hated others, the more desperately she clung to her love of Harry.

Despite, how often he talked about the magic, and power, of love, Albus Dumbledore had not truly considered the love between these two; their love was not a factor in his plans and designs. After all, he had thought, they were just school children; there was no way that their love could be strong enough to be a factor at their age. He did not understand the love that an emotionally abused Harry would have for the girl that always supported him. Nor did he understand the love that a constantly bullied Hermione would have for the one boy who always stood up for her. Albus Dumbledore did not understand their passion, their commitment nor their devotion one towards another. He could not, for the fires which drove them both, and all teenagers, had banked in Albus Dumbledore over a hundred and fifty years ago during that fateful duel.

But above and beyond that, there were other forces at play. There were things that were supposed to happen. Changes which Harry and Hermione were destined to bring about. Fate had decided that the love between Harry and Hermione would be such that it would help them succeed. It would help them shape and mold the world into the designs and patterns as they saw fit. They would be the new Merlin and Morgana, destined to shape the next millennium.

And their love would power this.

Their love would help them bring about this, make their whims into reality.

Love would see that their goals came true.

And for the Hermione that had those dark books in her bag, for the Hermione who fully intended to delve deep into the Dark Arts to help her Harry survive, for the Hermione who had been consumed by her own hate and anger and fear, there were only two goals that mattered at all.

Help Harry survive.

Burn Magical Britain, and all it stood for, down.


	36. Love Is

He lay in the grass as a soft wind whispered across him. There was innumerable smells carried on that wind, as well as the rustle of the tree that was just a few feet away. The tree's shadow danced as the wind wicked through the leaves, and he sighed ever so slightly. The sky was the bright blue that could only be seen during those perfect spring days, a blue that was marred by just a few thick, fluffy clouds. And of course the sun. A bright, spot of yellow happiness.

The thick wool of his outer cloak was bunched slightly beneath him, and his bag was situated under his head, providing him a slight, though hard, pillow to lay on. The happy sound of birds echoed through the area, competing with the breeze for background noise.

He was content. That would probably be the best way to describe it. There was no true joy in his chest, and by no stretch of the imagination could he describe himself as happy. But at the same time, that overwhelming ache of disgust at his fellow students had finally unclenched itself from his chest. He had not forgiven them for their assumptions earlier in the year, but it was no longer such an immediate driving force behind his emotions and feelings.

And even if it was, there was something about spring days just like this that made it nearly impossible to hold onto those harsh, demanding, ugly emotions.

He gave another sigh, and continued to watch the clouds as the lazily drifted by.

He did not know how long he lay there, silently watching the clouds before he noticed it. What it was, was a new smell; one that had intruded into his awareness. One that had bled into his sense of contentment, a smell that heightened it, while at the same time generated a new twist of apprehension and anxiety in his gut. It was a mixture of smells, a combination that was unique and immediately recognizable: vanilla and strawberries and oddly enough, the slight tang of India Ink. He blinked, and shifted slightly, to see Hermione laying out on the ground next to him. Her outer robes laid out on the ground as a blanket, much the same way his had been. His eyes flickered across her school uniform: the simple white oxford button-down shirt, the dark gray penny skirt that extended just to her knees, her stockings and a pair of leather mary-janes completed the outfit. He had never told her, but he found her obscenely adorable in her school uniform.

He watched her as she watched the sky. The silence twisted around them, heavy and expectant. He did not know what he could say to her. How he could break out from that weight of silence. Nor did he even know if he wanted to. If she wanted him to.

She lifted her arm and stretched out her hand. He followed that arm, and watched her fingers as they splayed out against the sky and the sun. Thin, graceful fingers with small blobs of a pink on each of their tips. They appeared slightly pointed, even though he knew that she kept her fingernails trimmed close in an effort to keep from biting on them.

The sun and wind seemed to kiss her fingers, and he heard her sigh slightly.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget, that until the day God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and Hope.'"

He blinked, and frowned. He could feel the twist of emotions in the slightest of scowls on his face, and he focused once more on the clouds in the sky.

"What?"

She chuckled slightly. Not quite a full laugh, but infinitely more than the giggles that her dorm mates were so often prone to. "It's my favorite quote. Alexandre Dumas wrote it in the _Count of Monte Cristo_. It's about human wisdom, and the simple fact that in the end, no matter what, all we can do is wait and hope."

She lowered her hand, and as it fell, it landed onto his. Her fingers threaded into his, and that was bright bit of warmth and joy in his otherwise content world. It was an odd feeling; like a single splash of color in a black and white photograph, or maybe a really strong taste when your sinuses are all clogged up and stuffy. He was not quite able to describe it, he lacked the words the comprehension. He just knew that it was an odd counterpoint, one he was unused too. Usually his counter points like that were dark things, in horrible settings.

He just knew he did not want to let her hand go.

"And what if I can't wait? What if I fear there is nothing to hope for?"

Again that slight, amused chuckle.

"It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule."

He blinked as he considered what she had said. He knew where that one had come from. After all, she had given him all three books in the _Lord of the Rings_ for Christmas, and he was not going to disappoint her by not reading them.

"So you're saying that I may have to stand and fight, but that I'm still doing it on the hope of making the world better than it is currently?"

There was a slight movement of the arm and shoulder that was pressed up against his, and he was not quite certain when she had moved so close that their shoulders were effectively joined. "I've given you books for you to read for years, they're all books that I've read and have impacted me and made me think. And I'd hope they'd make you think as well. If that's what you've taken from it, then that's the lesson you needed to learn at this time."

He snorted in amusement. "Is everything a lesson to you?"

"The best thing for being sad is to learn something," She began quoting, even as her voice was twisted with a wry bitterness. "That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honor trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then - to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."

He frowned at the bitterness in her voice, and squeezed her hand gently. He shifted his head until he could look at her face; and saw the exhaustion and sadness and loneliness there. The deep melancholy that seemed to twist at her very soul. It was a lance through his chest, that she could look that defeated and alone. He expected himself to be like that. After all, he had no family, and in truth the only real friend he had was the girl next to him. But she was everything he was not. She had a family, and she was so brilliant at everything she put her mind to.

Before he could question her further, she sighed.

"That's a newer one, though it explains so much about me. Just so you know, it's from _The Once and Future King_. I've always been smart. I was actually scheduled to take my A-Levels the year we started here. I was just so much smarter than everyone around, that none of the other kids knew how to interact with me. And I had no way to know how to interact with them. And those who were in the same grade as me, they... well, they all thought I was just a freaky little kid. At best I was treated like some kind of mascot. But never as a peer. Never as a friend.

"So, I learned and I learned. I was praised when I got good grades, when I tried hard. So that's what I did. Which of course meant that no one else wanted to talk to me or have anything to do with me, because I was so smart. I learned the hard way that children could not be trusted, that the were mean and did not understand. That's why I trusted adults so much. They're the only ones who ever did anything for me.

"And then... and then I got my Hogwarts letter. A way to start over. To start at the same level as all the other children, to maybe, possibly have a friend. And then those first two months, I tried and I tried and nothing worked, so I fell back into the old patterns of focusing on the only place where I was getting any type of positive interaction.

"Then there was that Halloween. When I overheard Ron bad mouthing me, it was just one straw too many. I think I broke and I ran away. I wanted my parents, I wanted to be accepted, I just... I didn't want to be _here_ anymore."

Pain lanced through him at her description of those events. Even if she glossed over his own hand in what had happened. He did not want to know, but could not help but ask. "At Hogwarts?"

He could feel her head shake in denial. "No. Just here. Being alive. I... I wanted it to all end. To not have to deal with the teasing and the pain and I was.. I did not want to be alone all the time."

His breath caught in his chest. A sharp agony that he had only felt once before, during those weeks when she was petrified in the infirmary. Those weeks when he was missing her so much that it was a literal ache in his chest.

"I..." His voice trailed off. He did not know what to say. What he could say. Or even how to say what he was feeling.

She seemed to nestle even closer to him. "And then you were there. You came for me, and you've been there with me ever since. You've been my friend and the one person outside of my parents that I could always count on. I had never known that someone my age could be that for me."

"So, in the end, we have to struggle and overcome what we can, and for the rest we wait and we hope."

"Other people will tell you other things, but to me, that's what makes sense."

"So, what do we hope for?"

"Love, Harry."

"Love? I'm not sure I know what that is. The Headmaster seems to think my mum's love had something to do with what happened to Quirrel back in first year, but he never bothered explaining what that meant. And I know I never got to experience it growing up. I would not call how Verrnon and Petunia treated me as love. I don't think how they treated Dudley or each other was love either. I... I just don't know."

"Different people think love is different things. My favorite quote about love is actually by Bruce Lee."

"The kung-fu guy?"

This time, she did giggle. It was a sound that he had rarely heard, but found distinctly delightful all the same. Maybe that was because of the sheer rareness of her giggle.

Yes," she replied after a moment. "The kung-fu guy. He said, 'Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.'"

"So, that's how you see love?"

There was silence for a handful of heartbeats. Then she shook her head. A movement which made the smell of vanilla and strawberries more powerful for a moment, before another breeze came in and snatched most of the smell away. He blinked at the realization that he did not want that to happen; he wanted to continue to smell her.

"No. I don't think that's quite how I see it. I... I like the romantic concept of that quote, but... It's close to how my parents explained it to me though not exactly what they expressed."

"How so?"

"It's like this. Love is a choice. It's a decision and an action and something that someone does. So many people and books talk about true love this and true love that, or love at first sight, like it's an emotion and fickle and can change with the weather. But I don't think it's that. I think those are lust and like and a host of other emotions. But they're not love. Love is both an verb and a noun. It's shown in the way we act, and describes the reason we act that way.

"Love... love is. Love is doing something with someone just because. It's helping them when you're tired and would rather be asleep. It's being there for another person no matter what. It's waking up in the morning, and saying to yourself that I want to be with that person. And doing it automatically, without thought or prompting. It's putting their needs above your own. Even if those needs might hurt your. It's not something that you can sit back and expect to receive. It has to be earned and fought for. Every day. It's... it's not a matter of telling someone, 'I love you' so much as its a matter of finding that person and proving it. Every day, and at every opportunity. Love is an action, everything else... that's just words."

Silence settled around them, as he considered her words. As he applied her words to how she treated him. To how he treated her. He thought and he considered, and he realized that he was no longer just content. He was happy now. There was a subtle, but persistent sense of joy that twisted in his chest. A change wrought by the conversation with her. By the simple pleasure of basking in her presence. And he wondered why she had sought him out in the first place. What force had driven her to find him.

The sun took that moment, to swing out from behind the clouds, and shine down on them even brighter for a brief moment. He blinked, and realized that he was still watching her, and finally noted that she had turned her head to watch him as well. Her eyes were edged slightly with tears, but there was a soft, almost decadent smile twisting her lips.

A smile he could not help but return.

"Just words, huh?" He whispered the words, not certain why. But he felt, he knew, that there was something there. Something ephemeral and almost in reach. Something he wanted to grab and never let go.

For a brief moment, her smile widened, before settling down again.

"Yes," she replied, her voice also dropped down into a husky whisper. "Just words. But sometimes, girls like to hear those words anyways."

He chuckled lightly, and leaned forward. Absently, he noted that she was leaning in towards him as well.

And at that moment, Ron's voice echoed around the area, loud and harsh and demanding. A sound totally at odds to the feeling that Harry had been chasing. "Harry! Hermione! Oi! Where'd you two go?"

And with that, Hermione twitched back away from him. A blush flared across her cheeks, and she twisted away from him, hiding the view away from him, and the direction that Ron was coming from. Harry knew that the moment was broken. Shattered somehow and someway that he could not name or define or even know how he recognized. He just knew that it had slipped through his fingers, and that his world was less now for that fact.

He blinked, as he watched her. She sat up and called out. "Over here, Ron."

Harry sighed, as his other friend crested the ridge they had been hiding behind. Dark emotion flickered over the other boy's face for just a moment, before they lightened to a slightly forced smile. If someone had not been looking for it, if someone had not been raised that any shift in emotion could be a danger, they would have missed it or maybe dismissed it as their imagination. Harry may not know what love was, but he knew jealousy and anger and a host of other things which the Dursley's would turn towards him. Emotions that would often lead to beatings or time locked away in the cupboard under the stairs. He had learned early to watch for those things, and to ensure those emotions were never turned towards him.

"What you two doing hiding here?"

Hermione's voice was tense with something. "We were just talking, Ronald."

Ron made a rather rude noise of disgust. "Well, come on, Harry, why don't we go play chess?"

He glanced towards Hermione, and noticed that she appeared skittish for some reason. Like she wanted to escape. To run. Before he could comment on that, she was standing, and had her bag in one hand and her cloak in the other. She did not look at either of them; an action that confused Harry for some reason. "I need to go to library. I'll see you boys later."

Then she was gone.

Now, he felt neither content nor happy. He was confused and torn and just did not know.

He heard Ron sigh slightly, and then saw the other boy glance at him. "I'm going to marry that girl some day."

Pain twitched at his chest at that pronouncement. He wanted to say something, to deny that as illogical and nonsense. But he found that he had nothing to say, could say nothing. Rather he just gave a confused shake of the head.

"Anyways, come on, I've got the chessboard set up, and I'll spot you a rook and a knight this time."

Harry knew there was no point in arguing. The other boy would just continuing asking and asking, until Harry finally gave in. And since he knew where Harry was, there was no further hope in trying to regain that feeling of contentment. It was almost instinctive that he knew that without Hermione around, there was no reason to even try for that feeling of happiness.

Slowly, ignoring the rambling Quidditch commentary of his companion, he gathered up his things and began the long trek back to the common room.


	37. Of Hate And Love pt 2

She stood in the doorway, watching, observing him from the shadows. She enjoyed watching him like this, there was a crispness to his movements when he thought no one was watching. A precision of movement that sent thrills of something through her body. A something that was more than hormones but baser than emotion. Something filling, and emptying all at the same time.

He moved with the graceful airs and the sheer sense of danger and restrained power of a wildcat; something large and fierce and deadly and wild. His movements flowed with a grace that she was awed by, one she was _almost_ intimidated by. Had she been watching anyone but him, she would have feared the death and destruction that his movements hinted at. The simple knowledge that he could move like that would have fanned the flames of fear; but she knew at an instinctual level that Harry would not harm her. She believed that he was incapable of such a thing.

So, she watched and listened and _felt_.

Power flowed off him. A rushing torrent of ethereal energy which teased and taunted her senses.

She could feel the touch of its gentle wash, punctuated by short sharp spikes of electric focus as he performed spells. Sometimes it would hover over her skin, caressing it like a stiff breeze. Other times harsh and scratchy like an unwashed afghan.

Occasionally, she could taste the power. An odd tingle just on the edge of her tongue; sometimes the sickly sweet of nearly bad fruit, sometimes the coppery metal of blood.

More often, she could smell the aftereffects. Especially, when he overpowered any spell, when he focused his energy into a singular pursuit. When that happened, there was an ozone that hung on the air. A smell that was not quite the sharp burn of an electrical discharge striking soft tissue, but not nearly as smooth as the smell of rain on the wind.

And of course, there was the sights and the sounds of his magic. The brilliant bolts of colors that shimmered across the spectrum of the rainbow, and the sizzle of the magic as it skittered through the air, and then the thuds or snaps or cracks as the spell slammed into their training dummy.

All of it a visceral awareness of him and his power.

And all of this sang to her. She hungered for it in some odd, unknowable way. The need for it, for his attention, twanged along her nerves, and skittered across her skin. It was an ache, a longing, and one she felt deep in her bones. It was a pull, a tugging of his magic towards hers, demanding that she join him. That she be his. That she claim him as hers.

As always happened when she watched him, barely understood desire flooded her. In those moments, she felt more primal around him.

Her magic flared with that desire, a wild, heady twisting feeling that spun around her sense of self and tangled with the tense presence of his magic in an almost erotic dance that did nothing at all towards calming her hormones. Not that she really, truly wanted her hormones calmed. She thrilled at how those hormones raced and spun and twisted at the bare edge of her control; enjoyed the feel of her magic as it caressed his. And of course, she enjoyed the reciprocal.

Suddenly, his head snapped up. An alert tenseness gripped him and he stilled. The comparison of him to a dangerous predator flashed through her mind again, even as he seemed to taste the air.

He spun towards her. As he did so, his wand flowed through a motion, one which ended with his focus trained onto the shadows in which she stood. A focus which was aimed directly at her. She could feel the tightening of his intent on her, a sense of danger and impending violence coupled with a clenching of her magic that flickered down her back as a shiver, and made her heart thump twice and then skip a beat. She realized that it was his magic that was doing it. His intent. His will. The same intent and will which allowed him to face a thousand year old basilisk and win. The same intent and will which allowed him to face over a hundred dementors and banish them all away.

And a small part of her noticed that red energy had gathered at the tip of his wand; the baleful red flicker of a stunning curse.

Then his eyes found hers; brilliant killing-curse green ensnared honey-brown.

The focus, the sense of danger and death snapped away. Gone as if it had never existed. The fierce clench of his magic against hers lessened. But his magic did not release its grasp on her, instead that harsh steady grip of impending violence, relented; it became something softer, a caress, a gentle almost reverent touch.

"Hi," he said with a easy smile.

She had noticed that he almost always had a ready smile for her. It was something she understood instinctively, for she almost always had one for him. His simple presence almost always made the day that much better; almost always gave her a reason to smile.

She smiled back at him, enjoying the warmth of his presence and that caress of magic. She walked into the room and towards him with the same sense of purpose with which she had perused the library. It was a purpose which filled her and sang along her every action. It was announced in her every step, her every movement. Movement and purpose which all but screamed her intent and her focus. Save Harry. Help Harry. Love Harry.

He met her in the middle of the room, by the lone desk that they had left set up, the teacher's desk actually, and without warning he swept her up in a hug. She could smell him, the smell of his sweat, and deodorant, and broomstick polish and underneath all of that there was a musk that was so uniquely him, that it made her knees go weak, and caused her cheeks to flush. Especially in those rare times when he would initiate a hug.

She allowed her arms to snake around him, pulling him against her, and could feel the tide of her hate and rage ebb. They were still there, still roaring with the need to rend and crush Harry's and her enemies. She could still feel those dark emotions, was still aware of them as they crashed in waves against the shore of her love for Harry, sweeping away all the other feelings, leaving behind just those three elements as a bedrock for her actions.

For an insane moment, she had to suppress a giggle. She refused to be one of those types of girls. Still, she had to discuss the books she had found and could not focus while in his arms, so she pushed him lightly away, "You need a shower."

"I thought you liked the big, sweaty types," he replied, a lopsided grin tugging on the corner of his mouth as he released her from the hug.

She pushed away the desire to just grab him and kiss him.

Instead, she huffed and pulled out one of the books she had gotten from the library. She set it on the desk, her fingers playing across the brown stains and tattoo on its cover. "I have a plan for the dragon!"

He sat on the edge of the desk, his green eyes focused on her brown. "So, spill."

Turning away from him, she dropped her bag onto the floor. Then she pulled off her outer-robes, and bent over to place them on her bag. Turning back towards him, she noticed he was more flush than before, and his eyes seemed darker. They were watching her every move with a predatory emotion she had never seen there before. A need that she recognized in her own feelings for him.

She smiled at him, feeling an ache in her own chest, a knot that she had not even realized was gripping her heart, release slightly.

As she began speaking, she watched him carefully, she sat down in the chair, and crossed her legs, noting the way that his eyes seemed to follow her movements. Noting the _hunger_ with which they glowed.

"Well, as you know, dragons are ectothermic reptiles. That means that they don't manufacture their own body heat. Part of the reason that they breathe fire, is so they can keep their burrows warm during the cold winters, because they don't hibernate. What we need to do, is to induce a hypothermic reaction that will incapacitate the dragon. If you can get their body temperature low enough, then it will start to die. Even if you can't get it cold enough to kill the dragon, it will still become sluggish and confused with as little as a fifteen degree drop in temperature."

He watched her for a minute, his eyes shining with emotion. Pride. Pride and something else she had a hard time identifying. "You. Are. Brilliant! I knew you could find something. So how do we do this hypnothermite reaction?"

"Hypothermic," she replied with a smile of her own. "As for how, well, I was thinking you could start with aquamenti, and then use glacis on it. But then I found this spell: creare liquidas. This is the wand movement, and you'll also need to tell it what type of liquid element you want. Here watch."

She pulled out her wand, and performed a twist and a stab, as she called out, "Creare liquidas water."

An wave of water crashed over the floor, and then with another wave of her wand and a whisper, the water disappeared. She looked back at Harry to see him frowning slightly.

"That's basically the same thing as aquamenti."

She shook her head quickly. "Yes and no. Aquamenti is a jet of water, and can only be water. Watch again." She twisted and stabbed with her wand. "Creare liquidas nitrogen."

A wave of cold washed over them both, a snapshot of the deepest winter, that stole at their breaths. Both of their eyes focused on the steaming liquid, that was rapidly boiling away in the cool castle air. It touch the wood of a chair, and that wood splintered with a cracking sound.

She grinned up at him, and blinked, as he had moved. He had jumped from the desk, and advanced on her, and before she could protest, or even consider the thought of protesting, he had snatched her out of her chair, and was spinning her around; holding her tight against him. A crush of awareness and joy and warmth and _him_.

She could not help herself. She giggled.

She hated giggling, but at times, especially when near him, she felt that irrational, and unexpected joy twist through her emotions. A joy and happiness whose only escape was to giggle.

He set her back down on her feet, and she gripped him as the world wavered and continued to spin for a moment. She looked up at him, and saw his eyes. They were once again shining and dancing with that dark glow, an ember, a banked fire that smoldered slightly.

In the end, she could not help her herself.

One of her hands slid up and found the back of his head, her fingers threading itself into his hair, and she pulled him towards her.

Confusion flared for a moment in his eyes, and she almost lost her nerve. She almost let him go.

Just as she was about to, he pushed forward, and their lips collided.

Her magic flared, twisted itself around his. She could feel his magic responding to hers, molding itself to hers, even as she tried her best to physically mold herself to him.

At that moment, she knew nothing else. There was no thoughts or flickering ideas. There was no rush to attempt to learn all she could, no desire to read that next book. All that existed, all that was, were the feelings of him pressed against her, the way their magics entwined, the taste of his lips and the thumping of her heart. Adrenalin and magic shimmered across her nerves, even as her heart rejoiced in the feel of his lips pressed on hers.

The kiss ended, and he moved his head slightly. Not away but just enough that he was able to rest his forehead against hers. She watched him, his eyes, as they flickered with emotion. The rest of him did not move, and he did not release the frantic grip of his arms wrapped around her. She did not remove her hands from around his neck, did not take her fingers from his hair. And she was happy with that. Ecstatic.

She stared into the bright, shimmering green as his eyes danced. They seemed to sparkle and twirl with emotions and joy and a unstated happiness that she had never really seen in them before. It was mesmerizing, hypnotic.

"Wow," he whispered. "That was brilliant."

"Yes," she replied, her voice husky and low, and she was not quite sure how it had done that. All she knew was that she agreed whole heartedly with him. It was a brilliant kiss. Something she desperately wanted to try again. "Yes it was."

Suddenly, his eyes darkened. The fires that had been burning in them seemed to bank; the joy seemed to drain away from them. It left her cold and scared.

"This..." His voice was suddenly weak and trembled. "This is going to change things, isn't it?"

She frowned for a moment, as he tried to pull away. Instinctively, almost desperately, she continued to cling to him; she kept her grip firmly around him, holding her to him. Not letting him go. "Personally, I hope it does. I... I was..."

She allowed her voice to trail off, and looked down, and bit at her lip.

"What?" She could hear the confusion in his voice.

"I was scared you didn't... wouldn't like me like that. That you didn't even think of me as a girl."

She blinked furiously, fighting against crying.

"I've liked you since second year. I was devastated when you had been petrified, and was constantly sneaking into the infirmary to see you."

Her head snapped up, and she focused on him. A small, wistful smile, one could call it sad, twisted at his lips. Love and wonder flooded through her, and she felt her heart lift. "Then... why didn't you say something?"

He shrugged, and gave a short sharp bitter laugh.

"I... I was going to, but... that first Hogsmeade weekend... Ron said..." His voice trailed off as his smile twisted, it turned harsh and deepened into a scowl.

"Ron said what?" she snapped.

"He told me that you two were together. That you both had decided to start dating, but were keeping it quiet."

"That... that moron told you what?" She snarled. Her magic stilled as her rage and hate erupted once again. Dark emotions gripped at her chest, squeezing and twisting in her stomach. Finally, letting him go, she took a few steps away from him, and then began pacing even as she muttered things under her breath. Curses about and directed at the youngest Weasley son.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her thoughts and emotions and magic stilled again as she looked at Harry closely, focused intently on him. "And you believed him? Even with the way he makes fun of me, and how we argue?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, his head lowered, eyes downcast. "Had no reason not to believe him. That's how Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia tend to act."

She sighed, and closed the distance between them again, wrapping herself around him. Holding him allowed her to once again focus on her emotions, pushing them down and away. She leaned in and gave him a somewhat chaste kiss on the lips. "That's because your aunt and uncle are evil gits who should be destroyed."

He chuckled, and she felt the tenseness leave his back and shoulders. He seemed to melt into her embrace slightly; surrendered to it and her affections.

"Now," she said, as a smile mischievously twisted across her features. "I'm telling you that that was utter nonsense, and I will be having... words with Ronald for his lies. That said, isn't there something you should be asking me?"

"What?"

"I don't just kiss random boys, you know."

He blinked twice, and a frown flickered across his features for a moment. Then he smiled brilliantly, happily. "Hermione, will you be my girlfriend?"

"I'd love that," she responded, her own smile bright enough to light the room.

Then she jumped on him. A single, smooth movement which wrapped herself around him, with her ankles locking together behind his bum, even as she felt his hands snap to hers, to support her. Her hands tangled into his hair again, and she kissed him for all that she was worth, hoping he would know how much she loved and needed him. Home much she desired and wanted him.

After a moment, she dropped back to the ground, still with a bright grin plastered onto her face and a blush bright against her cheeks. Instinctively, she patted at her clothes, and hair, straightening them out. He appeared befuddled and dazzled with an odd, goofy grin on his face. Her smile turned impish as she looked at him through her eyelashes.

"Now, that we've got that out of the way, the final thing in my plan for the dragon is this spell." She opened the book to a bookmark, and pointed at spell that was described.

Harry blinked twice and then gave his head a good hard shake. He stared at her for a moment, before blinking again and then focusing on the book. His eyes flicked back and forth between the text description and the animated drawing of the wand movements. Then he turned to her, "atrumal varis?"

She shrugged. "As best as I can guess from the description of its effects, it's supposed to mean dark bindings. What it does is create powerful chains to hold and subdue things."

"Things?"

She nodded her head, and shrugged again. An almost negligent movement of her shoulders. "Yes. Things. Creatures, people, stuff."

Harry made a wordless sound of amusement as he glanced at the book again, and then lifted his wand. A whip-slash, and a muttered phrase, and dark chains slashed out of his wand, slamming against the training dummy. Magic flared between them. An intense almost heat that writhed and shimmered outwards from his wand. He winced slightly, and staggered.

Then he stumbled a step forward giving his head a short, sharp shake.

"Whoa, wasn't expecting quite that much pull."

Hermione absently nodded her head, and walked over to the training dummy. Her eyes roamed the chain, looking at it, inspecting the results of the spell. The chains itself appeared to be some type of black metal; each link had one or two spurs on it. Spurs which appeared to be eating away at the training dummy where they touched the wood and leather that made it up.

She spun towards him, a triumphant grin on her face. One that she had reserved for him and him alone. "You did it brilliantly."

He smiled at her. It was a soft smile; one filled with warmth and affection. "It's all thanks to you."

She could feel her cheeks flare with a blush at his words, and ducked her head slightly even as she inwardly cursed her hormones for betraying her with that blush.

Before she could think up a reply, she noticed Harry's wand flicker through the tempus spell, and then he once again smiled at her. "Come on, we've got to head towards dinner now. I'm sure Snape would love to give us detentions for not being at a meal."

"Professor Snape," she muttered in response. But her heart was not really that troubled with the lack of respect directed towards the teacher. More, she did not want to give them any reason to focus their ire on them. She knew they could accomplish so much more if they did not spend time in any of Snape's pointless detentions.

She shook away her thoughts and then looked at the results of the tempus spell. It hung in the air as smoky numbers, in Harry's spidery handwriting, an indicator of just who had cast the spell, and nodded. She pulled her cloak back on, and gathered her books even as he did the same.

She paused at the door, waiting on him. And once he had joined her, she reached out and threaded her fingers into his. He started for a moment, and looked down at where their hands were met. Then he smiled at her. His magic once again a warm embrace that seemed to swell around her, comforting and protective.

Hand-in-hand, they left the room, heading towards the Great Hall and dinner.


	38. Of Hate And Love pt 3

Harry pushed aside the heavy canvas flap that covered the entrance to the Champions tent, he paused there staring into the darker interior while a hot knot of fear and tension rested heavily on his stomach. It was a dark pit of anxiety, one which turned his stomach sour, causing him to taste a harsh, nasty, acidic bile in the back of his throat; a burning, foul taste that matched perfectly his mood and the emotions that twisted through him.

His eyes having finally adjusted, he fully entered the tent and allowed the canvas to drop behind him. Part of him noted that it must have been charmed for silence as the outside sounds snapped off suddenly and with a harsh finality. He allowed his eyes to flicker around the tent, focusing on each of the other Champions for a moment.

Cedric sat on a bench fairly close to the entrance; his elbows were on his knees and his back was curled as he rested his face in his hands. His body occasionally spasmed with some emotion or feeling. Professor Sprout was there with him, one hand rubbing his back in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a comforting motion. Her normally kindly face was stone-like, with dark inscrutable eyes that were focused on something past the horizon.

In one of the furthest corners stood Krum. He was an intimidating figure, dark and broody with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips and other facial features twisted into a dark scowl. He was a stoic presence, with no outwards signs of distress or concern or simple anxiety. As if all of this, the tournament and the task and the danger, was a common, normal thing. Maybe even somehow beneath him. An older man was settled onto a bench near him, and Harry assumed that he was one of the Durmstrang professors due to how he was dressed.. The professor's eyes were closed, and he appeared either asleep or dead.

Harry fought the urge to snicker. He knew that such an action would not be appreciated by either of the dour Bulgarians.

Finally, his gaze fell on the final champion. Fleur paced along one wall of the tent. Her skirted outfit and her silvery-blond hair flared with each turn, and trailed after her as she stormed back and forth. Her emotions were clear on her face, anxiety and fear gave her a hauntingly tragic beauty. He absently noticed that heat seemed to shimmer up from her clenched hands, as if she was just able to keep her transformation under control. She too had a professor with her, this one dressed in the dark blue robes of a Beauxbatons faculty member. The older woman appeared haughty, and sniffed slightly when she noticed his attention. The only other person in the tent to react in any way or shape or form to his presence.

A whisper-flick of disquiet twitched in his chest. The anxiety turned over, and bile burned at the back of his throat once again. He, the youngest of them all, was the only one without an adult with him. He, as always, lacked any type of support or help from any adult in his life.

Harry looked down, ignoring the others as he walked towards the back wall. He stared for a moment at a bench, glaring at the cheap pine it was made of. After a moment, he gave a slight sigh and then settled onto it. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting the back of his head slightly on one of the support poles. He focused. Focused on his emotions and the twisting and spinning and twirling they had started performing in his stomach. He strained his ears, focusing away from his emotions and into his environment; he tried to hear the crowd or the dragons, or simply anything beyond Fleur's steady pacing.

A murmur of disquiet tripped through him. His eyes snapped open and he glanced around. Not sure what it had been. Just as he was about to close his eyes, it came again. A voice. Her voice. It was an almost hissed whisper. One designed to get his attention and none others, and coming from immediately behind him.

"Harry!"

He exhaled strongly, and felt his heart lighten. He twisted slightly and then stuck his hand through the gap of the canvas, and grasped her arm. She gave a quiet squeak as he pulled her into the tent. Once she was in, he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. Her arms snaked around him, and he inhaled deeply, drawing a deep lungful of the smell of her hair.

They clung to one another; he could the tension in each her posture and arm. A tension similar to the one he felt itching at the base of his spine. Her body hitched, and he could tell when she choked back a sob.

Her presence was a soothing balm against the dark emotions that had plagued him. A calm that washed away the bile and the tension. He released her from his hug, only to claim her hand with his. For the first time since he had woken that morning a feeling of peace had settled onto him. He drew in another deep breath, smelling that Hermione smell, before exhaling.

"Won't I get in trouble in here?" Her voice trembled slightly.

He shrugged his shoulders, and gestured toward the others with his free hand, as his eyes sparkled with mischievousness. He spoke just loud enough that all the champions and their companions could hear him, but not so loud that it was obvious that that was what he was doing. "They all have someone with them. Since, I apparently don't rate a staff member watching out for my needs and concerns, I'm more than happy to have someone that I actually like in here with me."

He saw Hermione's eyes flicker from one person to the next, they turned impossibly cold for a moment when they landed on Cedric and Spout. Once she completed the circuit, then she gave him a wry smile. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. A burning, bright spot of warmth and life. A fire of something good and joyful. "That makes sense to me."

She slipped off his lap and then settled into the bench next to him. A slight shift, and she had leaned her head against his shoulder, and this was enough to let him to allow his posture to relax. He could feel the tight knot of anxiety slowly continue to untangle in the calm presence of her acceptance and love. He took another deep breath, reveling in the smell of her.

Fifteen minutes passed, with the only sound in the tent the continued pacing from Fleur. Thirty.

Then the tent flaps swished open, and the Tournament Officials came in.

First was Ludo Bagman, Harry thought he looked quite ridiculous in his old quidditch uniform of yellow and black. A uniform that was at least a size too small. In his left hand he held a small black leather bag, which shifted and twitched as if it held live animals..

Then Karkaroff entered the tent. His appearance was as dour and harsh as his student and fellow professor. His dark eyes glittered maliciously as he looked around, and he spared a harsh sneer for Harry.

Third was Madame Maxime. She was hunched slightly as she entered, and once passed the initial canvas straightened. As was usually the case, she physically dominated the space around her. Her face was blank, imperturbable, and she ignored them all to focus her attention on Fleur.

Next was Barty Crouch. He seemed to have shrunk since Halloween, gotten smaller and just less; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot and flicked from person to person never resting on anyone or thing, and a slight tremor shook his hand. A tremor which reminded Harry of a meth addict that had mugged his Aunt Petunia the previous summer.

The last person to enter was Dumbledore. He was dressed in his customary outlandish and gaudy robes, and had his beard gathered in the center of his chest with a golden circlet which held an odd brown stone shining in it. His blue eyes swept over those in the tent, an imperious, commanding movement, as if he was the master of all he surveyed. Yet that gaze stumbled, and his eyes tightened for just a moment as he paused on Hermione. Then the eyes shifted and dropped so that they were focused on the interlocked hands of Harry and Hermione, and the intimate way they were huddled together. The usual twinkle seemed to dim slightly, he spoke, his voice was clipped and cold and harsh and carried a tense undercurrent of distaste.

"Ah, Ms. Granger, could you tell us why you happen to be in the Champion's tent?"

And with the Headmaster's words and tone, Harry could feel his anger become a tight hard knot in his stomach. An anger that then exploded through him, and seared across his thoughts and perceptions. When he spoke, his voice was just as tight, clipped, harsh and cold as the Headmaster's had been. "Hermione is in here because I asked her to come in after I noticed that everyone else had someone they trusted with them, thus I wanted someone that I trust in here with me."

Dumbledore's gaze shifted, and Harry felt the full weight of the older man's attention. A glacial clench of something ethereal and unnameable and almost overbearing. Pained throbbed in Harry's head; a rhythmic pulsing pain which pounded in tempo with his heartbeat. A protective urge twisted in his chest, a surging, wild counterpoint to his anger and headache. A protective urging which drummed with an overwhelming staccato of pulses that demanded he hurt someone, anyone, just so long as Hermione was safe and with him.

"But Harry, you could have asked a member of the Faculty to be in here with you. I'm sure Professors Snape or-"

Harry cut into his words with a snort in amusement. "Thank you for your concern Headmaster, but my statement stands."

Before Dumbledore could speak again, Bagman gestured around him with his free hand, and gave his bag a short, sharp shake with the other. "That's all good. All good. But for now, I need everyone who's not a Champion or a Judge to go find their seats. We need to be getting ready with this particular show, yes?"

Harry turned towards Hermione, and kissed her. Initially, he intended it to be a chaste kiss. A simple press of the lips to indicate his affections and that he would miss her. Yet as he leaned in and touched her lips, he could feel eyes on his back, the others staring at him. It was a tenseness that raised his hackles, and made him wonder if he was about to be attacked. To annoy them, he deepened the kiss for a moment. Then two.

He broke away, and noticed that tears had seemed to gather at the edges of her eyes. Sparkling diamonds that highlighted the honey brown.

"Be safe, Harry," she whispered, her lips twisting into an smile. A tear slipped over the edge of her eyes, and sliced down her face. "Please?"

"I promise," he replied with a grin, trying to project a sense of calm determination that he did not feel. He lifted his hand, and then brushed away a tear right before it fell. Once done, he cupped her cheek with his hand. She leaned into his touch slightly.

They stood there, with his hand on her cheek, and eyes locked. As always there was that knot twist of emotion that bounced and danced in his stomach whenever he watched her like this. It was an almost shiver of feelings which traced itself around his body, and always reminded him of old books, libraries, and vanilla beans.

"See you after the task," he whispered, giving her a final gentle kiss on the forehead.

She gave him another of those odd smiles and then spun around. With her chin lifted slightly, appearing to ignore everyone and everything, she strode from the tent. Harry almost chuckled as he saw the look of venom that she did manage to shoot Dumbledore and the other judges on her way out.

Once the other professors had left, Bagman shook the bag again, and grinned at them all. That grin held a wild, manic quality to it, a twitchiness, that Harry recognized and instantly made him hesitant; wary. His Uncle would sometimes get that same look; especially when it seemed as if one of his bigger sales was going bad. It was a look which never spelled good things for Harry. In fact, it was almost always a precursor of bad things happening to Harry. Things that left him bleeding in his cupboard for days without food. When he was lucky.

Bagman gestured all the Champions forward, and as they drew closer he started speaking.

"Well, in this bag, I have... representations, models if you will, of what you'll be facing, as well as the order that you'll be going in. Your challenge will be to get past these guardians and to retrieve a Golden Egg. You'll need this egg in order to successfully prepare for the Second Task. Questions?"

He grinned widely at them all, that manic, twitchy quality never leaving his eyes or posture or lips. His eyes were bright and shiny and feverish, and with those feverish eyes he looked at each Champion in turn. After a moment, he nodded, and lifted the bag. "Well, then, let's start. Ladies first as always, so Ms. Delacour?"

Fleur stepped forward, and reached into the bag for a moment. She pulled out a miniature dragon. It had black scales, and a ridge that ran down its back, bright eyes, appearing as jewels of amber against the black scales, seemed to glow as the animated thing twisted and turned and attempted to escape her grasp. A number two was painted on its side. Harry noted that Fleur's pale skin had paled slightly more, and she seemed to lose a bit of etherealness that always seemed to cover her.

"Good, good," Bagman exclaimed, overly loud. "You'll have the Hyberdian Black, and go second. Mr. Diggory, if you please?"

Cedric stuck his hand in, and pulled out one that Harry instantly recognized; as it looked just like Norbert. A three was painted on its side. Cedric's jaw clenched slightly, but that was the only outward sign of discomfort or concern in the Hufflepuff's bearing.

"And Mr. Diggory will go third, and face the Norwegian Ridgeback. Mr. Krum?"

Krum stuck his hand in, and pulled out his dragon. Its scales were a deep blue, though it had bright white splotches at the tips of its wings and tail. Bright blue eyes twisted back and forth, trying to look at everyone at the same time. A large number one was painted on its side.

Harry could feel his heart sink.

"Wonderful. Mr. Krum will go first and face the Swedish Short-Snout."

Bagman held the bag towards Harry, and gave it a rough shake, even as his fever-bright eyes seemed to glitter with something more, and that manic grin turned wider and wilder.

Harry frowned, but knew he had no choice but to go forward. With that determination, he shoved his hand into the darkness of the bag's opening. There was a slight, almost tingle of something which teased itself along his fingers and hand. A flare of focused intent and will that was both familiar and alien and something Harry had never experienced before. Then he felt his questing fingers brush up against something. It was like touching a lizard or a snake, a cold slice of slick scales. His fingers wrapped around it, and he grasped the dragon. It squirmed in his hand, twisting and wild and he could feel sharp teeth latch onto the flesh of his pointer finger.

He gritted his teeth, stifling the exclamation of pain, as he pulled out his hand and the dragon it grasped. Baleful red eyes watched him with a cold, malevolent intelligence, even as he took in the appearance of the model. A crown of spikes rested at the back of the head, and the tail looked like some sort of medieval battle mace with the thick knob and layers of spikes. Gray effervescent scales coated its body, they shimmered navy blue for a moment as it twisted in his grasp and clamped its mouth around another finger. A number four was painted on its side, and Harry looked up at Bagman, to see the older man grinning that wide, manic grin.

"Oh, oh, that's a lively one there, Mr. Potter!" Bagman let out a belly laugh. A laugh full of good cheer and mirth. A laugh that had no true place when condemning four teenagers to facing nesting she-dragons. "You'll be facing a Hungarian Horntail, and be fourth."

Bagman clapped his hands twice, loud gunshots which, from the way she had jumped, startled Fluer. He looked around at everyone. Harry noted that the manic gleam appeared to have gone from Bagman's eyes, the stress and anxiety and twitchiness had faded from him, as if something had gone his way.

"Well, we'll have everything ready to start in about ten minutes, and you'll each have thirty minutes to complete your task. There will also be a fifteen minute delay between each task. Mr. Krum, we'll be calling for you soon."

With his piece said, he spun around, and walked away, a jauntiness, an almost hop, to his steps that Harry did not understand, but left him disquieted nonetheless. It was the sudden suspicion that the man was happy that Harry had gotten the most dangerous of the dragons that was at the root of his disquiet.

He frowned, and watched the man leave.

Then he felt eyes on him, and he glanced around to see Dumbledore watching him. Harry almost missed it, but there was a small smirk on the old man's face. If Harry had not been watching closely, he would have just assumed it was nothing, a figment of his imagination and tension and stress, he would have assumed that the current facade of grandfatherly concern on the old man's face was really all that was there.

Dumbledore nodded towards him, and then turned and left, the rest of the judges following.

Harry looked back down at the dragon in his hand. His anger at the Wizarding world burned in his chest and stomach. He watched the red eyes which glared up at him for a moment, and then shifted his focus to the blood that rolled down his hand from where the teeth once again were sunk deep into a finger.

He squeezed.

The dragon squealed in pain. It was a high-pitch keen that stabbed deep in the primal fear receptors in his brain; the anguished cry of an alpha-predator in pain. A sound which caused the other Champions to twitch and then focus on him.

"Finite," he snarled at the thing, and spell light flared in the palm of his hand. Instantly, the dragon stilled, all of its animation just gone. As the light faded, the model slowly shifted, losing details and colors and definition, until all that was left was nothing but a poorly done wood cut out, one that vaguely looked like a child's drawing of a dragon.

He dropped the wood, and then pointed a finger at it.

"Conflagre," he hissed, the ball of anger giving his words a menacing, taut quality. Liquid napalm flared into life, and splashed against the wooden model. There was a hiss, and then it burst into fire of bright reds and yellows and oranges; a miniature sun that burned hot and bright on the ground of the tent.

Just as fast as the fire appeared, it disappeared. Leaving behind just a smudge of burnt earth, and the acrid tang of smoke and destruction. Harry looked up to see three dumbfounded faces watching him.

He could feel his temper flaring, as hot and bright as the fire that had consumed the dragon statue. He snapped at the other Champions, a harshly worded command-like question. "What?"

Cedric shook his head slightly. "N-Nothing. It's... that... that was wandless."

Harry looked down at the smudge of blackened dirt. He kicked at it, and it crackled like glass. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked back up at his competitors. "So? Can't everyone do that?"

They stared at him in open-mouthed, unblinking shock. He glared at them for a moment, and then settled back onto one of the benches. He looked around, and muttered under his breath, "Should have brought a book."

Just then Bagman's voice-magically enhanced from outside the tent-erupted all around them.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the First Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament! We'd first like to thank the Romanian Dragon Preserve for allowing us to borrow a few of their dragons for our little task today. And of course, Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore for hosting the Tournament in the first place! Anyways, first up in this task is the star member of the Bulgarian National Quidditch team, Viktor Krum!"

Krum's face shifted to an impassive mask of indifference, and he stepped forward, vanishing beyond the tent.

Time passed slowly. Each minute felt like ten. And as the time slowly progressed, the air in the tent grew heavier- more stifling and more oppressed.

Krum had walked out calmly and stoic. His face etched from granite. For twelve minutes, all that could be heard was Bagman's exclamations and random comments about what Krum was doing. Enough to allow the others to know that Krum had not finished, but not enough to give them any ideas.

Finally, the roar of success reverberated loudly enough to overcome the silencing charms for a moment. A cacophony of sounds, that thrummed within the tent and Harry's head.

Fifteen minutes later, Bagman was calling for Fleur.

Her time out there lacked the exuberance of Krum's; and lasted almost twice as long. It was twenty-three minutes of near silence which ended with a shout from Bagman about her being on fire.

Harry fought the urge to smirk.

Another fifteen minutes, and then Harry was waiting alone.

For every minute that passed, Harry could feel the tenseness settle across his shoulders, eking deep into his chest and muscles, making everything tight and tense, and leaving him with the feeling that he was going to snap.

Dragon roar screamed out, loud and harsh. Bagman's laughter was louder and harsher.

Cedric lasted fourteen minutes before it was announced that he had made it back with the Golden Egg.

Harry felt the tenseness and anxiety double. Nausea and bile burned thick and heavy in his stomach.

He pulled out his wand, and looked at it for a moment, watching it closely.

Finally, Bagman's words echoed in the tent, they wrapped around Harry's head, heavy as an executioner's noose. "And our final Champion! The Boy-Who-Lived! Harry Potter will be fighting against this Hungarian Horntail, as he tries to get the Golden Egg! We'll see if he does as well against this one, as against the one in _Harry Potter and the Dragon's Tooth_!"

And with that final sentence, the anxiety and nervousness fled. They were replaced with a seething, turbulent hate. In an instant, his thoughts had turned dark. He stared at the entrance to the tent for a moment, dark thoughts flickering through his mind as he wondered just how much damage he could do to the judges and other Ministry personnel that were there. Everyone in those stands, bar Hermione, saw him as the Boy-Who-Lived. They celebrated his orphanage; rejoiced in the death of his parents, and gave him that damnable name to remind him of it each and every day.

His fists clenched tightly, and he violently exhaled a breath he had no memory of holding.

Hate.

In that moment, that burning, twirling hate was all that existed in his world. He hated all the other students. He hated the wizarding world as a whole. He hated the judges and the other schools. He hated those Death Eaters who he just knew were at the root of him having to be in this thing, and he hated the 'Light' which put him on a pedestal as some type of super hero. He even hated that dragon who was just doing as her instincts cried for her to do in regards to this task. It was all consuming and powerful and there in a visceral sense.

In a fluid movement, he stood, and stormed out from the tent. With each step, that hate churned in a boiling pit of power in his chest, which thrummed within and through his other emotions. A pulse of something deep in the pit of his heart, that slowly shuddered around him. Step by step, the power and emotion grew and trembled beneath his skin. It was an odd feeling that he had never experienced before. A straining pressure that grew within him, which struggled against his sense of self in an effort to escape and get free. To run wild and uncontrolled. To lash out and destroy and grind those who angered him to dust.

He stepped from the Champion's tent and into the arena; his wand still clenched tightly in his hand. There was a crackle that he felt more than heard, and the power arced away from him. It twisted around his body, causing his hair to become even more of a mess and his over robe to whip out in an unfelt breeze.

His runaway emotions rushed through his magical core, pulling his magic with it, and setting up a feedback loop as it struggled with itself. Harry did not often feel his magic, but at that moment, he could. It was that thrumming power and twisting thing trying to escape his control. He drew in a deep breath, focusing on that burning feeling in his chest, and knew that it was wrong somehow. That there was something not right with his magic. It was as if there was something between him and his magic. Some barrier that kept him separated from it. That kept him from constantly sensing it as he sensed it at this moment.

The boos and hisses from the crowd of students washed over him. He ignored the noise. They were unimportant. Lackluster and flat. The other students were blobs of gray in a colorless world.

Instead, he looked out over the stands, hunting for just one thing. For one person.

He had to see her. It was an imperative, an unconscious, almost genetic command, one that dwelled deep in his heart and soul. He felt like a gladiator or a knight of old while on the field of honor. His head swiveled around, searching, hunting for his princess.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting in the front row of one of the stands, her body and her posture were clenched with fear, and he could see that she had been chewing on another of her fingers. Her eyes were wide, and her hair was even bushier than normal, evidence of the anxiety and concern that she was obviously feeling. But she was there, and alive and real in a way that none of the other students were. She was a bright spot of life and color in that self-same colorless world.

His eyes locked with hers, and he mouthed three simple words towards her.

A minute amount of the tenseness seemed to leave her shoulders, and she gave him a weak smile. Her mouth moved, and he could almost hear the words of her response in his head: Survive. Win. For me.

An ear shattering cannon blast rolled out over the field, and echoing wall of sound, and cloud of black powder smoke coupled with the acrid stench of sulfur. The symbol that his timer had started; that the task had begun.

Harry wrinkled his nose, as he entered the dragon's den and came face-to-face with his dragon.

The beast's serpentine face was at least four feet long, not counting its crown of spikes, the longest of which added roughly three feet of length. Multifaceted eyes whirled with reds and oranges, waves of anger and distress and hunger battered at him, washed over his senses. The malevolence and hunger were almost physical waves that battered at his senses and magic.

Then the eyes locked onto him. Each eye was a whirling, glittering jewel, and each facets an individual lens, that resembled fire stored in a ruby. Those glittering jewels focused, stilled, locked onto him, and Harry knew that it was time to move.

He jumped out of the way, throwing himself behind a series of rocks, just as a jet of white-hot napalm splashed against the ground where he had just been standing. The stream of liquid fire, moved over, and slammed hard against the rocks he was huddled behind.

In the background, he could hear Bagman's bellowing voice, and the cutting, derisive laughter from the stands.

The anger clenched in his chest again, and he rolled away, ending in a kneeling position. His wand slashed through a familiar motion, even as he muttered the rather simple incantation that Hermione had taught him just a few days ago. "Creare liquidas nitrogen."

A splash of searing cold slashed across the compound, and splattered against the rocks, and dragon.

The creature howled in agony, and Harry grinned darkly, as he dashed to the next bit of cover.

As he ran, his wand was already slashing through the movements, the words leaving his lips, and another blast of transported arctic washed across him.

Warmth accosted his back, even as the blistering cold liquid boiled away. Harry touched the wall behind him, frowning as the touch of the thing nearly seared his fingers.

Then he understood. They had applied warming charms to the rocks and the walls in an effort to help keep the dragons warm. With a gesture, he sent a simple finite at the section of wall right next to him. Hesitant fingertips touched the wall, to find just cool stone.

Grinning, he jumped into a standing position and gestured with his wand, and screamed out an incantation, while pushing with his magic. A wave of magic flickered out from him, smashing against everything around him. There was a shudder that raced through everything. A moment later the warmth disappeared, the ambient temperature of the arena had dropped by at least ten degrees.

A cool wind whipped through the fake den, as all the warming charms, as well as Bagman's sonorous failed. Harry grinned and conjured another dozen gallons of liquid nitrogen, letting it splash across the dragon's claws, watching in amusement as the scales flaked away, leaving blistered and bleeding hide behind. The dragon squealed in pain and lurched away from him.

Glancing around, he realized he had gotten to the far side of the arena from the judges and VIP section. He saw Dumbledore up there watching him, and Harry could not help but smile at the thought that crashed through his mind.

Then he waved his wand again, conjuring more of the liquid nitrogen. This time though, the freezing liquid overshot the dragon; a steady stream of it slammed against the wood of the stands causing them to splinter and crack. There was a loud crashing boom, and all the judges and VIPs tumbled into the arena.

The dragon, lurched away from the initial blast of liquid cold, which turned its face-and its attention- towards the judges.

Harry rushed forward, heading towards the clutch of eggs, even as the beast let loose a stream of fire in the direction of the VIPs.

He grabbed the egg, and felt his hand blister from the cold. Hissing, he darted away from the dragon, a dead run towards the Champion's entrance.

Instincts honed through hours upon hours of Quidditch practice screamed at him, and Harry dove to the side.

Dragonfire flared through the space where he had just been, and Harry could feel heat slash down his side.

He rolled up, and conjured more liquid nitrogen, letting it appear directly above the dragon.

As it splashed down on her, the dragon screamed in pain. Harry watched, absently noticing that he had also caught Crouch, Karkaroff and a fat toad-like lady from the Ministry in a splash of the freezing liquid.

The dragon dropped to its belly, slamming the top of its head into the dirt, and pushed itself forward. It scrubbed its snout against the rocky ground, and Harry watched as its scales seemed to shatter away into nothingness.

His wand whispered through a movement, and he focused on his intent to bind this creature-this _thing_ that wanted to harm him. He wanted to make it submit to his will; to conquer it. A snarl entered his voice, as he exclaimed, "atrumal varis!"

Bloody, black chains erupted from his wand, and started wrapping around the injured dragon.

Harry felt a pull from deep in his magical core. His magic twitched, as the chains continued to encircle the beast. They appeared in great lines around and around the arena.

The world wavered, and blackness crept into the edges of his vision, even as the magic pulled harder and harder at his magical core.

Then he could feel a crack.

It happened somewhere in his mind, and heart. His body wanted to flinch, but he refused. He instinctively knew that would be the wrong thing to do. He could feel a hole in the barrier that existed between him and his magic.

Still the chains erupted from him.

Blackish blood erupted from his scar, even as chains burst from his chest.

And Harry screamed.

That blister of black blood hung in the air between Harry and the dragon. A odd surreal wrongness that seemed to twist and writhe and made him feel dirty just being this close to him. It had the presence of a dementor and a rat and a jar full of roaches, all rolled into a single moment of disgust. It felt like every bad thing that had ever happened to him compiled into a single boil of pestilence.

The chains from his chest wrapped around the black blood that hung in the air. They squeezed and then the blood screamed. It was a sound he had heard before, in the Chamber of Secrets when he had killed the diary. As those screams died down, there was a bright green flash and the blackness was gone.

The chains that hung tight around the arena dropped to the ground, and Harry hit his knees.

The world wavered around him, and he tilted forward, catching himself on the palms of his hands.

He coughed, and bright red blood flew from his lips, splattering against the ground.

Silence hung heavy over the arena, as none of the students or guests were making a sound. A part of him noticed that they were looking at him, staring hard. Their faces showed either awe or fear, or both.

Harry, struggled to stand. His knees felt like paper and the world had a tendency to waver and wobble, but after a moment, he managed it. Exhaling slowly, he straightened as best as he was able to and then looked around.

There was the dragon, watching him, subdued, submitting. Its dark scaled hide was ripped and shattered in places which exposed red, blistered flesh from where the liquid nitrogen had splashed down across it. The large multi-faceted eyes whirled with blues and a familiar green, a peaceful color at odds with the angry reds that had previously shown in them. He recognized particular shared of green. It was the same green he saw in the mirror every morning.

He had won.

He had beaten the dragon.

His magic sang, and flared in a brilliant display of bright white light that burned around him as an aura. Mana pooled physically around him, appearing as a thin mist that leaked out of the bleeding, gaping wound across his chest.

He took a hesitant step forward his feet still unsteady beneath him. As he moved towards it, he watched the dragon in much the same way as it watched him.

Then he grinned, and closed the distance between them. As he neared her, the silence of the audience just grew. It was pregnant with expectation and awe in equal measures. As if the entire student body could not believe he had done this, while at the same time clearly expected him to be eaten by the dragon. He laid his hand across her muzzle, and gently caressed the beast's nose being careful to not touch any of the blistered, bleeding flesh.

He waved his wand, and all the chains in the arena disappeared.

As one, the crowd took a deep breath.

Harry just kept his eyes on the dragon. It rose to its full height. An impressive towering creature, thirty feet at its shoulders. She raised her head at the end of her long neck, and stretched it around. Then lowered her nose, until it was right next to him. Harry leaned slightly, and patted the dragon on her snout twice.

Then she leapt into the air, with an overpowering downbeat of wings. The wind whipped at his robes, and threw dirt and rocks all around the arena.

Harry laughed loudly, and then clutched his side as pain erupted across his chest.

Straightening from a huddled stance that he had not even realized he had adopted, he looked around the arena. The urge to see her once again overpowering him, filling him. The need for it throbbed in time with the beating of his heart.

He spun in place as quickly as his dizziness would allow, scanning the crowds of the stadium. Then he saw her. She was standing at the edge of one of the stands, leaning over the railings.

He grinned, and sent a compulsion towards her. He needed to have her in his arms, and there was only one quick way to ensure that happened.

As he ran towards her, he watched as she climbed up onto the rail. She jumped off, to the sound of screams.

He flexed with his magic, and felt an odd twang in his chest, a twisting deep in the wound that still leaked physical mana. Then he could feel her magic as it touched his. He could feel her presence, deep in his chest. Their magic entwined, helping guide her through the air. It was a new feeling for him, something amazing and glorious and so purely Hermione.

She gently came to rest in his arms.

Then she was holding him tightly.

The mana thrummed and hummed, a heavy sound that could not really be heard, just experienced, as it started to glow a bright golden color. The now golden mist rolled upwards, covering both of them, surrounding them.

Magic itself pulsed with joy.

Harry stared into her eyes, watching the love dance in their depths. He leaned forward.

Then Dumbledore called out to them; screamed at them; his voice laced with compulsions and Command. "Harry! Stop! Don't kiss her!"

Harry's head snapped up, and he glared towards his Headmaster. Watching as the old man ran towards them, even as he was in the process of pulling out a wand. In response, Harry's instincts flared alongside his anger. That anger pulsed in his chest, screamed at him that Dumbledore was a threat to Hermione, that he was trying to separate them, that he was trying to take his Hermione away from him.

"Respectfully, sir," Harry snarled, he could feel the magic and intent twisting around the sound of his voice. "Bugger off."

Then he waved his wand, and sent Dumbledore tumbling away from him, even as Dumbledore's wand flew towards him.

He ignored that, utterly unconcerned about Dumbledore or his wand now that it was no longer pointed towards them. He turned back to Hermione, and pulled her close and tight against him. He leaned forward and kissed her hard. It was a demand that she surrender to him, even as he submitted himself to her.

The golden glow that surrounded them doubled in brightness. Then doubled again. It was a blinding light, a physical representation of their love, created through the mana that still leaked from Harry's wounds. Flames erupted into life, swirling around them, burning the air and mana. Waves of water appeared, as well, twining around the flames and mana.

All three elements twisted together, rising into the air; a column of fire and water and magic, binding and burning, healing and purifying.

It was the fierce joy and burning passion of newly found love. It was the calm quiet and gentle serenity of the library. It was the soaring freedom and rough thrill of adrenaline of free-fall while on a broom. It was the steady affections of old friendships. It was the frozen hatred generated by bigotry and manipulations. It was a wellspring of emotions. It was rage and joy and anger and laughter and death and life. It was Harry and it was Hermione. It was them. Their magic. Their anger. Their laughter. Their hate.

And it was their love.

It was all of this, and more, given physical form.

The cyclone towered over the two young teenagers; a pillar, a monument to the moment; a wonderment dedicated to the two children whose lives had been so irrevocably changed by one another. A shaft of light and power that kissed the heavens, and caused hearts to soar and cower at the same time.

Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the column crashed back to the ground. And with its disappearance a deep silence gripped the arena as something that was not quite a song ended. Even though there had been no true music, everyone had been certain that they had been hearing something, an almost ghostlike presence of almost phoenix song. The sheer pressure which the pillar had exerted on everyone, the presence which generated both fear and awe in every soul that saw the display, disappeared; suddenly gone as if it had never existed.

The golden glow faded, as the mists of mana drifted away on the slight breeze, and as it drifted away, it revealed what remained. On the ground, at the center of what had been that cyclone of elements and magic and power and emotion, were the still forms of Harry and Hermione. Smiles graced their lips, their hands were clasped together, and they were wrapped into and around one another. Their clothes and skin still smoked slightly from the power, but Harry's wounds seemed to have healed, or at least closed.

But above all, most importantly, the two teenagers were there. They were whole. And they were together.


	39. The Presence

**AN** \- This just seemed appropriate considering the time of year... and I've time jumped the entire thing into the future. Just imagine that the cast is starting Hogwarts in 2021 instead of 1991...

* * *

**The Presence**

Laughter, raucous, uncontrolled, and unsettlingly harsh, erupted all around Hermione Granger, causing her to cringe in response to the sudden noise.

She had not truly been paying the lesson the attention it deserved and the laughter had actually caught her off guard.

For even though she was not at the root of her peer's amusement, even though she was not the target of what some would consider _funny_, that shrill, harsh sound still caused her to flinch and hunch her shoulders slightly. It slithered through her skin and chest, flicking old memories and old insecurities. Reminding her of taunts old and new. It was a laughter which carried the memories of the past, memories that knew the next step after laughter like that was for her books to be taken away and damaged or her hair pulled or to be pushed into a nearby puddle of mud.

She sighed and straightened her shoulders. This was not primary school, she reminded herself. She had a friend now.

The class shuffled around, and she noticed that Padma Patil had stepped forward and into the range of the boggart.

A moment later, a giant cobra was settled on the floor in front of the other girl. It reared up, dwarfing all the students in size and let out an aggressive hiss. Its tongue flickered in the air, tasting, smelling. It was a massive example of a snake, larger than any Hermione had ever seen before; though still smaller than the basilisk that Harry had fought at the end of last year.

Padma yelled out the appropriate incantation. The spell erupted from her wand, a dark mass of not-light, and the cobra flinched when the magical energy struck it.

A moment later, it had changed. Gone was the massive snack. A box was settled on the floor. This box was easily two feet to a side, and had the classic jack-in-the-box music echoing out from it. The snake itself had been modified as well, it had shifted so that its tail was stuck in the box and it was also dressed up as a clown. To make things just that much better, it was wobbling side to side the way a jack would once it emerged from the box.

The class laughed again. Not a laughter of amusement, but the laughter of the horror house. A dark laughter with an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

Hermione still did not join in. The principle of the thing settled on her shoulders wrongly, like a shirt two sizes too small. And there was no way she was going to join in with laughing at the abominations that Padma thought would be a funny snake sitting there on the floor. She did not know what the other girl had been thinking. A snake was bad enough as a fear. But to then turn it into a clown as well? She felt a shiver race down her body.

Hermione stepped forward as Ron approached the boggart. She had not been the first in line, that distinction was held by Neville, with his vulture and dress wearing Snape, and Harry was the last student in the line, and immediately behind her.

After Neville's boggart, the class had taken on the airs of a circus; there was the feeling of festivity hanging in the classroom. A grasping, chocking miasma of expected laughs and the undercurrent reality of what they were truly doing to people's fears. Not to mention effectively torturing a living creature; like holding out a chunk of meat towards a dog, and then smacking its nose when it came to take it.

She knew that the laughter and the festivity and the joy was a facade. The laughter fake and forced. The happiness not true or real. That knowledge came from the way that all the students stood, how they all watched the boggart's cabinet with glittering eyes, and baited breath. An expectation of the next joke. The next horror. The next laugh.

Most of the students were waiting for that next spectacle of the macabre.

They waited for, wanted, the next fear and the next attempt to turn it into something humorous. She did not know if it was to laugh at how someone could make fun of their own fears, or just laugh at the fears of their peers.

The class drew in a collective breath as Ron was revealed to be terrified of spiders. The boggart had transformed into one that was a bit bigger than the average horse; its black eyes glittered maliciously, and a low rumbling hiss came from its thorax. Wiry black hair covered the creature, and its pincers clicked together, echoing through the room. _Aranea Theridiidae Imperator Immanis_. Or more commonly known as the bull acromantula of Borneo.

Hermione fiddled with the edge of her robes, her focus on other things than the massive acromantula that all but had Ron tears. The lesson, this practical, frustrated her. It twisted in her chest, for so many different reasons. Most of which she did not want to think about or face or even consider with more a glancing thought.

For the first time in her life she did not want to complete an assignment.

She had no true desire to step forward and let the boggart rip her fears out of her chest, and then show them to the world and the Slytherins. She did not want to dangle her fears out there, displayed for the world to see like some sort of obscene Christmas ornament. Likewise, she did not want to appear weak. She had absolutely no desire to see what she feared to be turned into a joke. For she knew, the way all bullied kids just knew that once displayed that way, her fears would be turned into yet more fodder for the bullying and snide remarks and taunting. Hermione felt that she had enough of that just with her hair and her teeth and the fact that she was more interested in learning things than all but the most dedicated of Ravenclaws.

The class erupted into that tense laughter as Ron managed the spell. As before, it was a forced laughter; a laughter that was just a tad too shrill, a tad too forced. A laughter that was a tad not quite true enough. She could she where a giant spider on roller skates could be called funny, but she could not bring herself to laugh at Ron's fears. Not even when those fears were struggling to stay upright in that almost comical way. She could not bring herself to laugh at any of her classmates if she was being honest with herself. Not even Malfoy's.

Ron stepped away from the boggart, his face pale and sweaty; a startling whiteness that made his freckles stand out and highlighted a darkness behind his eyes. The face of someone who had faced their fears, but knew that those things they feared were quite real, and more than willing and ready to eat them. The face of someone who knew, that despite the laughter, it was only luck, or someone else's skills, which allowed them to escape their fears.

And just like that it was her turn with the boggart.

She swallowed thickly and stared at the cabinet. Her nerves jangled, as her stomach lurched and felt like it had suddenly dropped two stories.. The cabinet itself was quite an innocuous thing, not much different than the wardrobe in her dorm room: simple wood craftsmanship that had been colored with what appeared to be a walnut colored stain and edges that had been worn smooth by generations of students. Yet, there was a reticence in her about this cabinet and what it contained; a twisting in her nerves and heart. For this cabinet was quite different than her wardrobe. For it held her fears. They waited for her there, hidden behind the simple door. A presence that could be almost felt. Beckoning and repulsive at the same time.

"Come along, Miss Granger. It's your turn."

That was said by Professor Lupin. His soft voice carried a hint of steel that belied his appearance. For all that he appeared the academic, he carried himself like and spoke with the tone and voice of a fighter. He reminded her somewhat of Harry in that way: strength hiding in an unassuming form.

She sighed, knowing she had not choice but to do this, and stepped forward. As she moved around them, she could feel her classmates staring at her; could feel the anticipation and the edge of feral excitement. It felt like they wanted her to fail. They wanted a reason to laugh and to mock and to throw their stones.

She let out another deep breath, trying to calm herself. To center herself.

She cleared the other students and stopped a dozen paces from the cabinet. The boggart flowed out of it; its body an amorphous blob of multiple colors which twisted and shifted and shrank and expanded and was a dervish of movement and change.

Until it stopped.

What remained was a television set which was sitting on a simple wooden stand.

She blinked, her mouth suddenly dry, and her palms sweaty. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes, and she bit her lip hard, in an effort to not let those tears fall.

To not gasp out loud.

To not run away from the television.

To not run towards it.

If anyone had bothered to ask, she would have happily admitted that she had came into this lesson with expectations. She had thoughts on what her fears were or could be. Possibilities and potentials. Maybe a teacher telling her off about grades. Maybe McGonnagall telling her that she was expelled, that she was to be banished from the closest thing to acceptance she had ever had. Maybe seeing Harry, or her parents, dead. Those were the types of things she was expecting.

This she had not expected.

For Hermione Granger knew this television.

There had been a time when that television had sat in a pride of place in her parent's sitting room.

Even after all these years, she could describe it. Fifty-seven inches on the diagonal. Black plastic frame that was less than six inches thick. She had spent hours in front of it, watching children's shows. She had been entertained and enthralled by the bright primary colors and furry friends who had taught her letters and numbers and all about friendships and sharing.

When she had been four the television had all but towered over her. A massive monument that she felt was as big as any billboard on the side of the road.

By the time she had turned five, her family had no longer owned a television. Or a computer. Or any other electronic that had a screen attached and was more complicated than a radio. Not even at her parent's dental practice.

"They're coming," she whispered in a voice that was so soft and low, that she was positive that none of her classmates had heard. She blinked as she finished speaking, not quite certain why she felt compelled to say that, but knowing that it was true and right. Though not good.

She looked at the television, taking in its presence as a whole. Stared hard at it. Focused her attention on it, as she considered the fact that as a thirteen-year-old, she still felt overwhelmed by its presence. But now that was for entirely different reasons; reasons that had nothing to do with the size of the television.

Her heart thundered in her chest and she had to swallow thickly.

As she took another step forward, her wand dropped from nerveless fingers, the length of vine clattering against the floor loud and sudden in the quiet room.

The class had lost that feeling of forced joviality. It had been replaced by a tense, undercurrent of unease that seemed to grip everyone in the room, and twisted hard around her heart; icy fingers which clenched her chest and soul and then squeezed tightly.

As always, Malfoy proved that he was unable to sympathize or empathize or feel anything beyond his own sense of self and grandiose and importance. He barked a sneering laugh, his voice oily and taunting and snide. "Granger's afraid of a muggle fellyvision? No wonder she spends all her time in the library."

A large number of her classmates, almost every one of them in fact, laughed at the taunting tone and words. They were _enjoying_ the ridicule inherent in Malfoy's statement. They laughed at her fears, and at the things which darkened her heart and chilled her soul without really understanding them or why. They could not understand. They did not know what she knew. They had not experienced what she had experienced.

Absently, she noted that Ron had been one of those laughing. One of those enjoying her torment.

She moved another step forward, her stance purposeful and unhurried, even as she ignored the mocking and the laughter, and shoved the hurt that she felt at the laughter of her fellow Gryffindor's down deep into her stomach; grateful that Harry's voice, his soft, gentle laugh, had not been a part of the group's.

Inches separated her from the featureless black of the screen's surface. She could just make out her reflection in that unyielding blackness.

The eyes of the reflected her were dark, empty, black pools; a pair of windows into an endless abyss, which stared into, through and at her, even as she watched them.

A small part her noted that she had responded to Malfoy's taunting; she listened to her own voice, a stranger's voice with her timber and inflection and pitch, a voice which spoke words that she had read once, years before, but words which reverberated within her, and twisted in her soul, and always remained there at the edge of her awareness, ready to fall from her lips like stones into a still pond.

"Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer-both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams."

She raised her hand. Not touching the screen, but holding her hand near to it. Almost touching, but leaving a space that was measured in centimeters, but also a space that arced, that ached, with the pent up potential for _something_.

Hermione distinctly remembered playing this game when she was four.

It was a game which had been thought up by the small whispers from the television and the other devices in her home. Things like her parents tablet or the LeapFrog device she had had when four. Electronics with screens.

This was a game that she had not played in years. Not since that summer.

This was a game that she had never wanted to play. Not back when she was four years old. Not tomorrow.

And definitely not today. Not here. And not now.

Yet, it was a game which she could not help but play. A game she could never resist playing.

Then to the entire class' surprise, the screen flickered once. For a moment, for less than a heartbeat, for less than an eye blink, the black screen had shown something, maybe static or maybe a face or maybe something entirely different. But the screen had shown whatever that image was. Had shown it when everything they all knew said that nothing muggle should ever work inside of the castle.

The harsh, taunting, derisive laughter from her class mates had stopped. Suddenly. Cut off with the finality of death. A Tense silence gripped the entire class, though none but Hermione knew what it was for. Or why.

Then the screen flickered again. An afterimage of that flicker seemed to hang in her mind's eye.

Then it flickered yet again.

And when that third flicker returned to darkness, the screen was that flat, endless black for just a moment, a heartbeat, before it flared into life, displaying a bright blue screen of static; unfocused lines that could almost be confused for letters or arcane symbols. Or maybe snow.

The speaker popped. Then sound came out. An ethereal, unearthly male voice. Singing a song, low and breathy and with the haunting quality of the sick, infirmed and about to die.

_God is in His holy temple..._

Hermione's hand moved those last centimeters of separation, she pressed it against the plastic of the screen. Gently, almost reverently. There was a slight distortion in what was being displayed around her hand; an aura like shattering of color that seemed to writhe against her hand and outline it.

_Earthly thoughts, be silent now._

In almost disturbing synchronicity, the class let out a breath. Someone, Hermione thought it Lavender, let out this odd, strangled chocking, chuckle-like sound. Like forced laughter. At a funeral.

_While with rev'rence we assemble_

She closed her eyes, her mouth formed a word, a name: Kane. Still, she did not actually speak it aloud. She knew better than that. Names held power. They called things forth, and granted them access. And there were some names that one should never say. Some things that should never be called.

Without warning there was a loud sound. It was almost the sound of someone slapping a hand against a thick pane of window glass. A reverberating thunk which resounded through the room. But had quite obviously not come from the television's speakers.

_And before his presence bow._

At that moment, the class behind her inhaled. Not a normal breath, but rather a strangled gasp of shock and surprise in that same disturbing, unnatural, synchronicity. She knew why they had done so. She could feel it, but she did not want to open her eyes to see. Even still, she knew that she had to look anyways. She would have to open her eyes, and make it real.

_He is with us, now and ever, _

Slowly, almost against her will, Hermione opened her eyes, and saw the hand. It was a man's hand, an adult hand, larger than her own, palm pressed tight against the opposite side of the screen from her own hand.

_When we call upon his name._

Then the hand disappeared.

"Miss. Grang-"

Lupin's voice was cut off by another of those loud thunks. The hand had reappeared; and done so by slamming itself against the screen. Hard. Forcefully. Solidly. Purposefully.

_Aiding ev'ry good endeavor._

Hermione raised her other hand, and rested it against the screen. Thus, she was standing there, facing the center of the screen, with each of her hands pressed against it. Almost as if she was about to push the television set over onto its back.

_Guiding ev'ry upward aim._

There was another heartbeat, another eye blink where nothing happened. Even the haunting song had stopped.

The silence that had gripped everyone was harsh and hard and cutting. A feeling of being in the presence of something different, something not of this world, something that did not belong, twisted around the room.

And with another hard thunk against the screen, dozens of hands appeared. Each of the hands twisted and writhed against the screen. Occasionally disappearing only to reappear somewhere else, pushing hard as if they were trying to escape. Or as if they were trying to grab her and pull her to them.

Shadows of impossible blue, that danced against the screen.

She grimaced. Or smiled. Hermione felt cold and hot and struggled to gain her equilibrium. She did not know what to feel or think or even do. That summer had been so long ago, and she had so much trouble remembering exactly what had happened. Her parents never talked about it, never discussed it. Of course, she had never tried to get them to. She had never wanted to open up and explain and give that summer the life that speaking those experiences would give it.

She twisted her head, and locked eyes with her best friend.

She could see the concern and worry and some horror she could not name that were etched onto his face. Expressions, a look, which appeared to age him by decades. She had a momentary flash, a memory from that summer, of seeing the exact same look on her father's face all those years ago on that first night that he had seen this game being played.

She smiled for him. Could not help but do so. But she also worried for him. For what was about to come and was about to happen.

She went to speak to him. To say something reassuring or comforting. Something, anything, to get that look off of his face. Instead, she spoke other words. Words in a sing-song, child-like voice. A voice that carried throughout the room and chilled the hearts of everyone who heard the words.

"They're here."


	40. Still more Mish Mash

Below are three bits that have languished in my archives for a while. They're not going anywhere. They're not even going to become more than these somewhat rather random scenes. As always, if you can do something with them, have fun...

−− •• ••• •••• | −− •− ••• ••••

** Another World**

Dumbledore sighed as he looked down at the broken, twisted body that half lay among the rubble of the fountain. He had been just a few minutes too late to the atrium, and when he had arrived Tom had been standing over a writhing twisting, wreckage of a boy. The sickly yellow light of the cruciatus ominous in the darkness of the area.

Of course Tom had fled, leaving Albus to find that the body he had been crucio'ing was the one person fated to face Tom. The one person that Albus had put all his plans and designs into. The one person Albus was using to lead young Tom back to the Light.

He sighed, as he glanced around, finally noticing the aurors and the Minister staring at the empty spot where Tom had been.

"He...he's... I.. it's not possible!"

Albus shook his head. Cornelius was truly a foolish choice for minister. "And yet, it seems that what I had been saying is truth after all."

* * *

_**[[Should be some discussion with DOM and the OotP here. Dumbles being "all knowing", and happily ignoring the rather good advice being spoken towards him]]**_

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had spent weeks crafting the runes and the needed celtic chant. Finally, the ritual he had crafted was ready. He placed his followers in specific locations.

A flower was laid out, a four-point compass, situated in the heart of a ley line conjunction.

Minerva McGonnagall in the north. A guiding light, stern and imposing and always willing to stand tall.

Molly Weasley in the East. A symbol of motherhood and birth.

Severus Snape was placed in the South. A darkness which was covering the lands.

He himself stood in the West. Grandfatherly wisdom.

Magic sang about them. Twisting and rippling and pulsing. A living dance of power and tension, that drove through them all. One shaped by the words they spoke, and the intent of their wills. A desire to pierce the veil between worlds. To rip it asunder and to bring them a champion that had already defeated their foe.

They needed someone for whom the prophecy applied, but also someone had already accomplished it. They needed a triumphant Boy-who-lived.

And so, this is what they requested of Magic.

And magic responded.

Of course, Dumbledore being who he was forgot some things.

First, he forgot that rituals based on the cardinal directions needed to be carried out in specific languages related to that particular language's compass symbolism. And for the Celts, the East was for new beginnings, the south was for creativity and passion, the west was for emotion and movement while the north was home, security and fertility.

Next, he forgot, or more accurately chose to overlook, the fact that Severus Snape hated James Potter and by extension his son.

Thirdly, he forgot to leave enough room for an adult male, or even an adolescent male, in the center of their circle.

And most importantly, he forgot that rituals were to be demands of magic. One must always remember that rituals are odd things; they are powerful and precise, but above all, they are designed to be demands of magic. Magic is a fickle and funny mistress. She is all but impossible to control without a precision of intent and emotion. With ritualized magic being the worst offender among all of the available forms. For while rituals are powerful and limited only by the limits of the user's ability to write out an and describe their imagination, rituals should never be requests.

They should always be demands. They are built around requirements, and as such should request things in precise terms and phrases, and clauses. Nothing should ever be ambiguous or imprecise. The reason for this is that Magic has a sense of humor, all its own. And given the chance for any imprecision or ambiguity it will take that and run with it to the ultimate limit.

The magic and power of the ritual reached a crescendo, and with that magic laughed.

Existence flickered and twisted inside out. For a moment, east was west, and up was down and red was blue.

Then reality settled back into its standard and stable patterns. Steam raised from the central point, ritualized aether that twisted around them.

Finally the glowing white settled, to reveal what was brought to them.

A small child, one that was roughly four years old. It was filthy and dirty, and had a large bruise running across its chest, and another that was the size and shape of a large man's hand on its arm. The only clothes it wore was a pair of dirty underwear, which allowed them all to see the bruises and scars and the way that the child's skeleton poked out in its chest. An obvious sign that he had not been getting enough food to eat.

The child twisted, and then suddenly bolted upright. Its eyes snapping open, wide, with terror etched onto its face. Albus felt his world crumble around him, as he recognized those green eyes.

"I sorry, Aunt P'tunia! I's up, and I start breakfast now!"

−− •• ••• •••• | −− •− ••• ••••

**[Unnamed Scene]**

Harry was currently invisible inside a producer's office at the BBC. He was watching the woman as she typed away at a keyboard about a terrorist attack over in the United States in preparation for that evening's news broadcast.

The evening news which was broadcasted live.

The woman gets up, and walks away from her desk. Harry quickly settles down into the chair and then changes the name of the terrorist to be Voldemort.

He was up and out of the seat moments before the woman returned. With a wave of his wand, a compulsion hit her to ignore the name Voldemort.

With that done, he took a few steps away, and out the door.

A part of him felt bad for what he was doing. He knew there was a taboo on the name. That snatchers would appear and fire curses at pretty much anyone in the area when the name was said. It was effectively signing a death warrant for the news anchor that read this particular story.

But it would also show Death Eaters breaking the _International_ Statute of Secrecy, as they apparated onto the set of a live broadcast. Not to mention whatever would happen as millions of television sets 'said' the word Voldemort at the exact same time.

Thinking quickly, he went down the hall and found the security office. With another quick compulsion, he implanted the idea that it would be a good idea to have three or four security officers hanging around that particular set this evening.

And with that done, he disappeared with a near silent pop.

Only to reappear moments later inside a hotel room.

Hermione was sitting on the sole double bed, dressed in her bed clothes and a towel wrapped around her head, evidence that she had just gotten a shower.

With the pop of his arrival, she glanced up at him, and gave him a quick, think smile. "So, it's all ready?"

He grinned at her, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm actually kind of excited for the news tonight."

She laughed, and shook her head, muttering something about boys. Then she turned on the television, activating the closed captioning while muting its volume.

It was about ten minutes into the broadcast, when the correct news report aired. As expected, as soon as the word Voldemort was spoken, a group of three snatchers appeared.

Bright red and green flares of light shot of of their wands. One of the killing curses his the desk in front of the anchor. The other killing curse, and the stunning curse flew over the anchor's head and slammed into the wall behind them. All actions which caused the wall and desk to explode in a spray of wood splinters.

Before anything else could happen, the extra security team had stepped forward. Pepper spray was pulled and used. The direct result of which meant that the three snatchers went down screaming, and scrubbing at their eyes.

−− •• ••• •••• | −− •− ••• ••••

**The Power**

Harry Potter rolled over in his bed, and gagged. Bile burned at the back of his throat. His blood felt rotten, and ached in his very bones, and his eyelids felt like that had been covered in Hagrid's furry jacket. Pain throbbed across his head, thrumming in perfect time to his heartbeat as a steady staccato rhythm of increasing and decreasing agony.

He struggled to blink, and fumbled for his wand which should be on the nightstand next to his bed.

His hand struggled, and flailed, but he could not find the wand. Nor the nightstand.

After a moment, he realized that he had not felt the curtains that surrounded his four-poster bed either.

Slowly, he sat up, not wanting to move too fast. After all, he had had enough hangovers this past summer while hanging out with Dudley to know what would happen if he jerked his head in any way shape or form. That particular pain was one that he did not wish to ever experience again.

Finally, he managed to open his eyes. Gaping, he slowly shifted his head, taking in the room that he found himself in. It was a rather opulent room, decorated with beautiful landscape paintings, and the crown molding sparkling gold in the light of the single candle. A quick glance down saw that he was dressed in a black gown, and a thick green comforter covered him.

He raised his hands, and saw that they had become pale mockeries of his previous fingers. Long, thing, and with sharpened nails, and so pale he could make out the blue of his veins.

He blinked. Twice.

Then twisted his hand, and ran it across his head, making him realize that he lacked hair.

He struggled out of the bed, and stumbled to the dresser which had a gilded mirror above it. In horrified fascination, he stared at the reflection, his eyes flickering over his features, as he took in the thin lips, the lack of nose, and the red eyes.

For a long, long moment, he stared at the image in sheer, horrified disbelief. For it was not his reflection which that mirror showed, but rather Tom Riddle's.

He felt an odd sensation building up in his chest. It was different and unusual and had nothing to do with the sketchy feel of an hang-over.

A moment later, the odd feeling burst out of him: first as a giggle, and then as full-on, laughter.

For five minutes, he laughed. Howling. Mad-like. Uncontrolled laughter.

After those five minutes, he straightened his night gown and stepped out into the hallway. On the wall in front of him, was a family crest. It was a shield decorated with dragons, snakes and fluer-de-lis, colored mostly green and black, except the massive silver 'M' in the center.

He glanced left and then right, looking down the long hallway. After a moment, he chose a direction at random.

The first door he came to, he pushed open. It was another room, and while it was not nearly as opulent as the one he had woken up it, it was still much nicer than any other room Harry had seen before.

Curled in a ball on the bed, was Peter Pettigrew. His clothes were rumpled and torn, and he looked quite the worse for wear.

"Wormtail." He said, his voice a low, sibilant hiss that seemed quite odd to him.

Peter jerked, instantly and suddenly awake. His eyes were wide, and round, and he blinked twice, before scrambling out of the bed and kneeling on the floor.

"M-m-m-Milord. How can I serve this morning?"

Harry opened his mouth for a moment, and then stopped. He blinked, and then stepped back out into the hallway. There was another of those family crests. He stared at it for a moment, and realization flooded him. He was in Malfoy Manor. An evil looking smirk twisted his features.

"Come, Wormtail, let us go to the dining room. And then bring our... hosts."

Wormtail looked up at him, his mouth gaped open for a moment, and then he quickly nodded, and scurried past him, all but running down the hall.

Harry slowly followed along, glancing into open rooms as he walked. Most everything was a bedroom. He paused for just a moment, as he stared into what he had to assume was Draco's bedroom. The room was painted in pastel greens and yellows, and had a dragon motif.

But these were not realistic dragons.

These were not even the dragons that adorned the Malfoy family crest.

These dragons reminded Harry quite strongly of Puff the Magic Dragon. In fact, the best word for them was cute. They were a light, almost pastel, green, and had short, stubby wings. Each dragon was adorned with wide, blue or brown eyes, and would give a puppy dog a run for its hang-dog expression. Some of them were plush animals, while others appeared to be ceramic statues. But the room was covered in them: there were on the bed, on the shelves, and dressers and there was even three painted on the ceiling. Worst of all, was that each and every one of them were animated. And the best word to describe what they were all doing, would have to be frolicking.

He shook his head, and continued on down the hall. Once he arrived at a staircase, he saw that Peter was disappearing into one of the rooms on that floor. Still keeping to his steady pace, he flowed down the steps and within moments was in the room.

He glanced around. Again, the room was an expression of decadence and opulence, taken to an extreme and then twisted into farce. Gold and gems glittered everywhere. He stepped over to the head of the table, and settled himself into the seat.

"I need breakfast."

Moments later, food appeared in front of him.

He glanced down at it, and picked up a slice of the bacon. He frowned, as he stared at it. It was so done, as to appear rubber like. No wonder Voldie's evil, Harry thought to himself, if this is how he eats his bacon.

He tossed the bacon back onto the plate, and looked up as Wormtail, Lucius and Narcissa walked into the room.

Lucius bowed to him. "You asked to see me, Milord?"

Harry took a bit of his breakfast. Silently, he chewed as he watched the older man.

Finally, his mouth clear, he nodded. "Yes, Lucy, I want you to let Wormtail here have his way with you."

All three of them stopped and stared. both Peter's and Lucius' face drained of blood entirely.

"Milord?"

Harry picked up a muffin and looked at it. He brought it to where his nose should be and sniffed. The scent of bananas and nut flooded his awareness.

"How the hell can I smell without a nose?" he muttered. Then he looked up. "Why are you two here? Wormtail, go to town. And Lucy, I know you raised a little poncy, dandy, daddy's boy in Draco, so I know that you'll enjoy Wormtail's attentions. Well maybe not Wormtail's, as he's not very well endowed, but he's here."

Lucius' mouth opened and closed. Twice.

Harry glanced around, and noticed the small frown on Narcissa's lips.

"And Cissy! You can stay here and entertain me."

He waved a wand, and a metal pole appeared in the middle of the room, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. It shimmered in the candlelight.

Narcissa looked from him, to the pole, her eyes wide in confusion. "Milord? I... I don't understand?"

Harry took a bite of the muffin, and slowly chewed as he looked between the two men and Narcissa.

"You're a Malfoy, I figured you'd have had experience using a stripper's pole. Or is that just the brothel?"

He turned his attention back to the men, and waved his hand airily. "Go on then. Down on all fours for you Lucy. Wormtail, I'm sure that you don't need any lubrication for this."

A quick glance at Narcissa, and he smirked again. "Do you need music Cissy?"

Without thinking, Harry picked up a piece of the bacon and took a bite. As he spat it back out, the world turned itself inside out for a moment. Colors and feeling and smells assaulted him, twisting through his soul and mind, torturing them beyond recognizable shape.

After what felt like forever, there was a snap across his sense of self, and he settled back into a semblance of awareness. He looked around the room, and realized that he was in one of the bed's in the Gryffindor dorms. He quickly looked at his hands, and recognized them as his own, and then ran them through his hair, luxuriating in the feel of hair. A quick touch against his face, revealed that yes, he did have a nose.

He let out a deep sigh, and looked around.

Then giggled.

Two nights later, he stumbled, as his consciousness flared into awareness as he was walking. He tried to move, and that caused him to half-stumble again, and as he did, one of his hands reached out and grabbed the top of someone's head. A someone who was kneeling near his feet. Frowning, he looked down and saw that it was some random Death Eater.

He looked at his hands, and realized that, once again, he had managed to find his way into control of Tom's body, and suppressed the desire to laugh maniacally.

Apparently, Tom had been in the middle of one of his monologue's as some of the Death Eaters were beginning to twitch and squirm as his silence lengthened. Harry glanced around the room and noted the large, ornate throne, and calmly walked that way as his mind whirled with possibilities.

He settled into Tom's throne and smirked.

"All right, everyone," and Harry had to suppress a shudder as his voice came out with a low, hissing quality.

"Stand up, Stand up! I have a grand idea for a plan to discredit those... meddling kids an-" Harry had to quickly bite his tongue to not include the words 'and their dog.'

He watched as confused Death Eaters all stood up. They cast odd, confused looks between one another, but they were too well cowed by Tom to actually question Harry.

Smiling, he rubbed his hands together, and leaned forward in his seat. "Bella!"

The witch in question dove to her knees in front of him, and raised her head. It reminded Harry quite a bit of how Ripper would react to Marge's presence. Which was a highly unsettling thought all things considered.

"Go to Gringott's and then transfer all of the contents of the Lestrange vaults to Harry Potter!"

"M-milord?"

One of the male Lestrange's stood. Harry did not know exactly which, nor did he really care. "Milord? Are... are you sure that's..."

Harry stood and gave the man his harshest glare. It was one that he had been practicing for this moment, he had modeled it after some of the harshest, meanest glares he had ever received. It was comprised of three-parts Snape's usual classroom expression when Harry or Neville was there, and seven parts Hermione's when he had not done his homework on time.

The man quailed, and took a step backwards.

"Are you questioning me?"

"N-no, no, Milord. I was just hoping for further details of your plan."

"It's simple! To discredit those meddling kids, we'll transfer a few fortunes to them, and then claim that they stole them. It's simply brilliant!"

"Now, Jugson, and Agustus, your vaults shall join Bella's in going to Potter."

There was another stunned moment of silence. Harry glanced around, and then gestured towards Dolohov. "Atonin!"

"M-Milord?"

"You go to Gringott's and transfer your vaults to... Ginger... no... Gangrene.. no, Granger! Yes that's it. Something Granger!"

"Who, Milord?"

"The girl who you hit with that curse when you all failed me in the Department of Mysteries. The girl you were apparently too weak and stupid to actually kill."

He spun around, and found another target. "Nott, you're to go and transfer your vaults and properties to the Lovegoods. Mulciber, yours too."

"Avery and Macnair, yours need to go to the Longbottom boy."

He turned and found the last person. He smiled down at Malfoy.

"Ah, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy," he fought the smirk as Lucius shivered slightly at the name. "Yours need to go to the Weasleys. Crabbe, don't forget yours as well."

He glanced around, and noticed that they all of his Death Eaters were still standing there, shock echoing out of them.

"I have spoken," he said, even as he waved one hand airily. "Go, do as I have commanded."

The Death Eaters he had singled out started making their way towards the door. Slowly, shuffling their feet. "Remember, that it all should be transferred. I will know if you do not."

The Death Eaters' shoulders all slumped slightly, as they continued leaving the room. Harry felt his lips twitch as they left. Again, the urge to laugh loud and long swelled inside of him.

He settled back onto his throne and glanced around the remaining Death Eaters.

"Now, my faithful followers, it has come to my attention that your capabilities have... grown soft. You are all weak. So, we shall have a dueling tournament!"

One of the Lestrange men again stepped forward. "Milord?"

Harry leaned forward, and smiled, and made a short waving motion with his hand. "Go on know, start setting up the duels. Oh, and nothing that can be blocked by shields. I want to see you all move. Now, Begin!"

He leaned back in his throne, watching, as they all stared at each other for a moment.

There was a moment when they all stood in confused silence. Then one young Death Eater, and Harry was fairly certain it was Marcus Flint, shot out the killing curse. It struck another Death Eater, and the woman in question fell to the ground in a boneless heap.

And with that, the room devolved into a brawl as unforgivables flared and flashed throughout the room.

Just before Harry could exhort them to try harder, his body and his awareness jerked and Harry found himself sitting on one of the couches of the common room. Hermione was there beside him, reading some book or other. The book he had been reading had apparently fallen to the floor when he had startled awake.

And then he giggled. It was hard not to. After all, if there was any truth to those last two visions, then there was a good possibility that he had just neutered the Death Eaters.

He laughed harder and harder, as realization sunk in: this was the power that the Dark Lord did not know. Not love. Not friendship. But, this ability to randomly take control of the Dark Tosser and order his minions to go about doing things.

His laughter fell off, as he noticed that Hermione was staring at him, confusion and worry etched into the lines of her face.

With the good mood, and amusement bubbling inside of him, he leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss.

He pulled back, and smiled at her somewhat dumbstruck expression. "Harry?"

He barked another laugh. "We need to get in touch with Gringott's, and see if we've had any... unexpected deposits into our accounts."

Her hand was touching her lips, and she gave her head a quick shake. "Wh.. Har... what?"

He grinned at her, as he grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, I'll explain on the way."


	41. The Mark

Change, especially lasting change, occurs when a society least expects it. It sneaks up on that society, and quite often forces itself into existence with hard work, persistence, and and all too often, not insignificant amounts of blood. Yet, for all that no one is really expecting major societal upheavals, historians can spot the trends and events that cause such change. They can point to specific points, and say "See, that's the root cause of X" or "Y was caused by W happening."

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

A random archbishop from Pargue ordering a Protestant church destroyed in 1618.

Cyrus' conquering of a city.

The death of Sobeknefru with no heirs.

Simple events, that lead to upheaval and changes. A World War which killed millions. A war that devastated Germany for 30 years. The birth of an Empire, and the fall of a kingdom. Simple events that blossomed into major, paradigm altering changes.

Historians and history books, and most importantly history teachers, like them. They are easy facts to remember, and easy facts to test poor students on. Yet there is some truth in them. Those were key events, which ignited the powder keg of change that was primed and merely waiting for the merest ember in order to explode and rebuild society into something different. Sometimes new. Sometimes better. But always different.

Magical Britain was one of those powder kegs. Centuries of bigotry enshrined in law, and enforced through bloodshed saturated the land. Helped by a school, that spent seven years pounding the defiance, willfulness and sheer ability to think from all but the most intractable muggleborn. Tradition and the Old Families held law and power and finance in their grasp and refused to move forward. They could not see the slow strangulation and death of their society, and those same families and traidtions despised the new ideas and fresh thinking that they forcefully brought into it by mandating a magical education for everyone with the ability.

In fact, one of those simple events, of those key facts, was even at that moment, flying its way through the bright sunshine of a random Wednesday morning in November. It winged to a stop in front of a young girl, in the form of a newspaper that was carried by an owl. A rather normal newspaper for a rather normal Wednesday morning. But a newspaper which had as its front page the publishing of a brand new law, that was just a sad repeat of muggle history.

_**Muggleborn Identification Act**_

_In some ways, a difference of dress distinguishes the muggleborn from those of better family. But at other times, and ways, such a confusion has grown that one cannot be distinguished by differences of dress or behaviors. Even worse, at times, a half-blood would or even could dress in the same fashion as a muggleborn, making distinguishing them even harder. Thus it happens that at times, and of course solely through error, a Pureblood of good family, would have relations with those of the lesser blood statuses. Therefore, that they may not, under pretext of errors of this sort, excuse themselves in the future for the excesses and perversions of such intercourse, we decree that such muggleborns of both sexes in every province of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and at all times, after the age of eleven, shall be marked off in the eyes of the public from people._

_Such that a muggleborn may be distinguished from their betters we decree and emphatically command that in the center of the breast (of their robes or other garments) they shall wear an oval badge, the measure of one finger in width and one half a palm in height. The badge shall be a bright yellow in color, with a large M, colored a muddy brown, in its center. _

_Anyone of a higher blood status that has relations with muggleborn, shall wear the badge decorated with a trim to indicate the person's higher blood status. If a Pureblood having relations with a muggleborn the trim shall be black. If a half-blood, the trim shall be green. _

_Failure to do so, carries the following penalties. For the first offense, a warning and a 100 galleon fine. For the second offense, the muggleborn or raised shall spend three months in the Wizarding Prison of Azkaban. For the third offense, they shall be expelled from the magical world, and their wand shall be snapped and its pieces burned. _

_For definition of this law, a "Muggleborn" shall be anyone with two or more muggles for grandparents._

_So ordered this day, November 15th, 1995, by your Ministry of Magic. _

Hermione lay the _Daily Prophet_ she had been reading onto the table in front of her. Her mind was spinning out of control as she digested what she had read. She had already read over the editorials and other articles claiming the great things that had been done this day. How wonderful it would be to just know, at a glance, who was a muggleborn or not. There was even discussion of a law concerning "Blood Infamy" and of another law for the "Protection of the Hereditary Health of the British Wizard."

From the High Table, both Umbridge and Snape looked over the hall as the new law was digested. Both had smug, superior expressions etched on their faces, as they stared outwards.

She allowed herself to glance around the room, her eyes flickered across the hall, landing briefly on certain people. The other muggleborns recognized the purposes of such laws. After all, what Germany had done in World War II was a required part of world history. Dark purebloods and halfbloods had undisguised glee etched onto their faces, as if half of their dreams were in the process of coming true. All the while, the light purebloods and halfbloods had the expression of someone utterly uninterested in this course of events, as if all was still right in the world, and nothing new was under the sun.

Even Dumbledore seemed nonchalant, and almost expectant. As if this was the normal and a proper course of behavior. Despite the fact that he was the defeater of Grendelwald, and thus should have had an inkling of what happened in Germany those many years ago.

Beside her, she could feel the trembling rage that Harry was trying his best to push down and to not express. Most likely loudly and explosively. It was a twisting, sinking feeling that etched the air itself. A tremor, an almost palpable flicker of something other, that twisted from the spot next to her. An undefinable oppression and a feeling that could only by described as possibility.

Hermione placed her hand on the closer of Harry's thighs, and gave it a gentle squeeze. For a moment, he tensed at the unexpected contact, before his body posture lost that tense, ready to explode feeling, and that possibility for things to happen drained from the air around them. That was something they had discovered over the summer after he had arrived at Grimmauld Place, the fact that she could help him refocus his emotions and gain control via simple physical contact. It was humbling and stirring and caused wild feelings to twist out of her chest every time she thought about it. But it was their new normal, and helpful and almost expected. Once the tension had drained, she cut her eyes towards him, and he gave her a terse grimace that could have almost been confused for a smile. His way of saying thanks and apologizing all rolled into one.

She smiled at him. A humorless, flat thing, that barely reached her lips, and was a forever away from her eyes, and then gave his leg a final squeeze before moving that hand to pick up her pumpkin juice. And oh how she longed for apple or orange or even cranberry.

Ron picked up the paper where Hermione had dropped it. He appeared to glance at the article that Hermione had been reading before dismissing it as inconsequential by turning the page to the Quidditch section. With that simple act, it struck her just how accepting of anything to denigrate a muggleborn anyone wizarding raised truly was. They saw nothing wrong with it. Were perfectly accepting of it.

Sure, the light-aligned purebloods did not want to kill muggleborns, but they did not really want them around either. Not really.

Inside, she felt some small part of her shrivel and twitch.

Umbridge stood up, and coughed that annoying little cough of hers. "I do believe that certain... students should retire to their dorms and put on the correct badges as expected by this law."

Hermione waited a heartbeat, watching the Headmaster to see what he would say or do. He barely seemed to register what Umbridge was saying, focused instead on his breakfast. McGonnagall had a slight look of distaste etched onto her features, but whether that was for Umbridge or her message was highly suspect, and Hermione firmly believed it was because it was Umbridge doing the talking.

She felt something inside of her snap. A breakage, a sundering, of that respect for authority which her parents had given her, and been nurtured by primary school teachers that would protect her from bullies. With that twisting feeling in her chest, she recognized a fundamental change in her outlook. a loss of innocence and naivety. She could trust Harry, in fact, did trust him implicitly, and she could trust her parents. But that was all. No politician or teacher or any one with authority in the magical world could be trusted.

She felt Harry stand. She blinked away the shock and disgust, and schooled her face into an expressionless mask.

Then she stood, and took a step away from the table. She raised her right arm, balled a fist, and slammed it against her left shoulder. Then she thrust that arm out, flattening her hand in the process.

From the corner of her awareness, she saw that most of the students and staff had no clue about what she had done. She did note that all the muggleborns recognized the salute for what it was, and that Dumbledore, McGonnagall and surprisingly Snape eyes had also widened in recognition. Though with Snape it was more of a flaring of the nostrils and the mouth twisting into a sneer. That was enough.

She spun on her heel, her arm dropping back to her side, and left the Great Hall before anyone could assign detentions or take points. Though she was certain Snape would when potions class rolled around.

Harry, as usual, was right there beside her. Together they left the room, ignoring the whispers, and the other students impacted by the new law. The doors closed behind them with a almost silent whisper of protest.

As they began climbing the many steps towards their dorms in the Gryffindor tower, she glanced at him; a hard, calculating look. "I wonder how long it will be before a _Kristallnacht_ happens. Or before we start hearing about the 'Final Solution' of the _mudblood_ problem."

Harry shook his head, even as he gave a short, unsubtle snort of not amusement. "Surprised at you, 'Mione. Malfoy's been doing _that_ since Halloween of second year."

She grimaced at the reminder, even as those events flickered through her mind, and settled into the new paradigm of her thoughts and feelings as they existed today. After a moment, she gave her head a short, sharp shake. "We should have realized then."

"Hmm?"

"Malfoy. He was advocating for the death of all the muggleborns in the castle, as a twelve year old. The teachers all heard him, and the one and only student that they questioned about Mrs. Norris was you. We should have seen it then. This is just more of the same."

"I think we were both too distracted by the pretty lights of magic to really think. Plus we were twelve."

"I was thirteen by then."

He barked a harsh laugh; a symbol of the terse, dark humor in her statement. "Doesn't matter. We were kids, pulled away from our guardians. Though mine were quite happy to see the back of me. We expected the adults in the castle to do what was right, and frankly, we shouldn't be wrong for thinking that. Even though we were, and are."

They finished their ascent in silence, each thinking and pondering and wondering. A whispered password granted them entry into their common room. There in a large sign on the house bulletin board was a copy of the new 'Muggleborn Identification Act.' A stark, and simple statement of their perceived worth in magical society.

Harry glanced around the room, before looking at her. "So, what should we use to make these things?"

Hermione smirked at him, and then pointed her wand at his chest. Muttered fake Latin and a simple twist, and he felt the magic twitch against his chest. He glanced down, and saw that his Hogwart's Gryffindor crest had been replaced. He looked up at her, and arced an eyebrow.

The smirk carried over in her words and tone. "The act tells us that that's the location for the badge. In fact, the Hogwart's Rules of Conduct uses the exact positioning description for your house badge. Ministry law trumps school rules. Besides, let's be quite honest here, they don't really want us as part of anything. That's the point and the purpose of this thing. To keep us separate and different. To exclude us. My turn."

Harry nodded, and performed the same spell. He watched as the Hogwart's crest with its highlighted lion twisted and changed. It shortened and became longer, the length of a finger and the height of half a palm, even as its color morphed, leaving a brown M on a yellow background.

He watched that badge for a moment, and then he twisted his wand, and raised what she could feel was rather impressive privacy wards.

This time it was her turn to raise an eyebrow in question. From the corner of her eye, she noted the rest of the Gryffindor muggleborns come into the common room and disappear up the various stairs into the dorms.

Finally, he raised his gaze and focused on her eyes. "We will have to do something about this, you know."

She nodded, even as she chewed on her lower lip. "And we can't be obvious about it. Umbridge would love to send us all to Azkaban or snap our wands."

"This is not just a war between the Death Eaters and everyone else. It's the muggleborns against the Ministry against the Death Eaters. The only difference between the two groups is a matter of scale. One wants us dead, the other just wants us gone."

"I know. Who can we trust?"

Harry glanced around, and shrugged his shoulders. "Sirius is a possibility. He's my Godfather and that _should_ mean something. But it all depends on how beholden he is towards Dumbledore. Most of the Order thinks the man can do nothing wrong and that his word is all but divinely given. The Weasley's especially. Maybe, we ought to talk to the others impacted by this law and see if anyone has additional contacts that could help us fight this."

Hermione was about to respond to that idea, when Harry suddenly tensed. His wand arm slashed downwards in a vicious motion. The privacy ward sparkled for a moment before collapsing in a burst of fairy dust. As soon as the ward was fully dispelled, he dashed over to the bulletin board. She watched as he reread the law, and then burst out laughing; falling to the ground in the process.

"Harry?"

She frowned at him as he struggled to regain control, not entirely happy with the slightly bitter, hysterical edge to his amusement.

Finally, his laughter tapered off and he glanced up at her; his eyes still sparking with the intensity of emotion. "Oh, this is brilliant. According to this law, Tommy-boy is a muggleborn. His father was a muggle after all."

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Doesn't much help. They're denying his return, and you cackling on the ground like a loon is definitely not going to help how the public perceives you."

"There's got to be another newspaper in the country besides the _Prophet_. Something I can give an interview too. Right?"

"I don't know..."

He bounced to his feet. "Lovegood!"

"What?"

"Ginny's friend. L... l something Lovegood. She was reading some newspaper that was not the _Prophet_. The _Keeper_ or something like that. We can talk to her and see what it was, and then find out if they'd like an interview."

"Fine. But, just keep it about Riddle, and what happened at the end of last year. No need to bring up this new law and our concerns there. We don't want them thinking about us in conjunction with that."

He shook his head, amusement still twitching across his features. "Fine, take all the fun out of it."

She gave a push against his shoulder. "Get over it. Now, let's get to Transfiguration. It ought to be interesting to see what McGonnagall makes of our new and improved crests."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were enjoying things?"

She pushed open the portrait, heading out into the hall. A quick glance over her shoulder at him, and she gave him a twisting, almost demure smile. "How could I do such as thing as that? I mean, I'm just a simple little mudblood after all."


	42. We Are The

Harry stumbled through the doorway, Neville and Hermione mere steps behind him. Lights flared around him, and he pulled up short as he looked around the room.

He blinked twice, and shook his head hard.

"Hermione?"

"I see it too, Harry."

He turned, and turned, and saw hundreds of small vials, each appearing to contain a popular cartoon character. In one was what appeared to be Bugs Bunny. In another, a black-and-white girl in a short dress, and a huge head. In another a grey tomcat that was staring at the brown mouse in the next jar. Then there was the jar that contained a woodpecker, followed closely by a blue hound dog with a red bow-tie and a straw hat.

In pride of place in the room though were three rather opaque bottles, each of which were labeled with what even Harry recognized as the Warner Brothers logo.

The door behind them exploded, causing all three of the teens to duck. Which was quite lucky for them as three blobs of energy slashed through the air where they had just been standing. Each of which hit one of the bottles.

Reacting on instinct, Harry threw a banishing charm towards the Death Eaters, and smiled slightly as they crunched against the far wall. With another wave of his wand, he had the door repaired and locked.

Time seemed frozen, as cracks formed on the bottles' surface. A spider-web pattern which leaked an eldric light. A sense of something, a presence gripped all of them, and clenched at their chests and souls.

Finally, the first bottle split open, and a dark, fuzzy, maybe furry, shape came rolling out of it. It stood up, and Harry estimated that the thing's height was about his own. It was covered in black fur, and had a long tail which flicked back and forth. Two ears twitched on top of its head.

And it was wearing a pair of brown trousers held up by a string.

The second bottle opened, and spilled out another of the creatures. This one in a red shirt, and wearing a red hat, and it rolled around on the floor for a few minutes. One of its feet was stuck in its mouth, and it was drooling.

Another moment, and the third bottle shivered and the pieces just fell away. The light still hung there for a moment, highlighting the last of the creatures. This one was apparently female, as it wore a pink skirt-without a top-and had a yellow flower bow tying its ears together. A somewhat sly smile twisted its mouth, as it held one finger, pressing slightly against a dimple.

Harry blinked. "Who... what are you?"

The first one, turned and looked at Harry, and he noted that they all had red noses. The only bit of color on them excluding their clothes.

"We're the Warner Brothers!" The first two spoke in unison.

The girl stomped a foot. "And the Warner Sister."

"What?"

"I'm Yakko," said the first.

"I'm Wakko," said the one in the hat.

"And I'm cute." replied the girl.

"No." Hermione said, her voice taut with denial and shock, even as she shook her head sharply. "I'm not seeing this. This. Is. Not. Real."

Actions which apparently attracted attention to his friend. Yakko and Wakko both dropped to their hands and knees and then wolf whistled. Literally, as their features had elongated and become distinctly dog like. They shifted back onto their haunches and Harry could have sworn that their heart was beating outside their chest in a heart shape. What Harry found about most disturbing about their transformation was the fact that their pupils had shifted and turned into little pink hearts.

Then they spoke in unison. "Helllloooo nurse!"

Harry blinked. Shook his head and then blinked again.

They were still there.

Then Yakko and Wakko bounced forward, landing in Hermione's arms. They squirmed for a moment, and she let out a sharp, somewhat cute, 'eep' sound. As soon as the things had settled they each gave her a loud and wet kiss on a cheek.

Dot huffed, sounding altogether too much like Hermione did whenever Harry or Ron did something particularly stupid. Or annoying. Or well, anything that was not planned by Hermione.

Neville returned from the opposite side of the room, where had been looking out a door, scouting ahead on their escape route. He stopped when he spied the the new arrivals and turned towards Harry with a frown.

"Where did these kids come from?"

Harry blinked again. His brain tried its best to stall as he pondered exactly what Neville was talking about. There were no children here, just these three things. He went to ask Neville what he meant, but all that came out was, "Kids?"

Before Neville could respond, he suddenly had his arms full of Dot. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she was smiling beatifically, while beating her eyelashes up at him.

"Well, hello there," and Harry noted that Dot's voice had taken on a somewhat sultry tone. A tone that _bothered_ Harry. "You're no Mel, but has anyone ever told you that you look just like a young Matthew Lewis."

"Um no."

She harrumphed slightly and then kissed his cheek, causing Neville to blush. "Well you do. I'm Dot. Dot Warner. What's your name?"

Neville glanced at Harry who just shrugged his shoulders. Harry had no clue about any of this.

Neville looked back down at Dot. "I'm Neville Longbottom."

Dot leaned forward slightly looking down Neville's chest for a moment. As if inspecting a prized steer or some prime cut of meat. "Why yes. Yes you are. So when was the last time you measured?"

And with that, Yakko jumped out of Hermione's arms, landing just a few inches from Neville and Dot. He turned so that his back was to them, but he was not facing anyone else in the room. He was not even looking at anyone, just intently staring off into space.

"Goodnight everybody," he said to an empty desk in an even and flat tone.

Harry blinked. Frowned. Then blinked again.

Sadly, the three things stayed. Or at least continued existing. Wakko seemed to be bouncing around the room like a hi-bounce ball. And leaving motion trails behind him as he did so.

Hermione crossed over to him, and took one of his hands into hers. He tore his eyes away from the bouncing thing, and focused on her. "We need to keep moving."

Harry nodded.

Neville spoke up. "But we've got to take these kids with us."

Again, Harry's brain stalled. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione's facial expression, and noted that it was the one that she put on whenever someone said something that lacked any shape or form of sense.

"What kids?" She asked, her voice tight and all but a hiss.

"Dot and her brothers. We can't leave them to the Death Eaters."

Hermione shook her head. "They'll be fine. I mean the-"

"I can't believe you'd say that Hermione," Neville snarled across her. "They're just children. It's bad enough that the DOM has them locked away down here for who knows what reason."

Harry and Hermione shared a look. Her eyes were pleading. He knew what she was asking. Mainly that they leave the Warner siblings in that room. He shrugged his shoulders, it was not worth fighting with either of them, and Neville's seemed the path to least resistance. Her whole body seemed to slump, even as she shot him one of those looks. Specifically the one she gave whenever he or Ron did something stupid or annoying. Or anything with which she did not really approve.

"Fine," he said with a sigh. "But you've got to watch out for them. And don't they seem... well odd to you?"

Neville looked down at the three things. Then shook his head in a negative fashion. "Not really. I mean they're a bit faster than the kids that live in the village near Longbottom Hall, but they look just like regular children to me."

Again, Harry and Hermione shared a look. Then sighed. He glanced towards the far door, and went to it. Once there, he cracked it open and peered out into the next room. It was a large, circular room, built up like an amphitheater with seating and a stage and steps leading down to it. All made of what appeared to be granite. On the stage itself was a strange stone arch.

Harry entered the room and walked down to the arch. Strange symbols were etched into its dark gray surface. A dirty cloth hung in the opening, covering it, and seemed to whisper a subtle almost motion in an breeze that he did not feel. Odd noises that could have been voices snaked out, and could almost be heard. He frowned, the entire thing gave him the creeps and just seemed odd.

A door on the far side of the room from where they had entered banged open, and he twisted that way, raising his wand. He relaxed slightly as Ron, Ginny and Luna entered the room. Well, Luna entered in her usual, dreamy way, but Ron and Ginny had hobbled. Ginny appeared to be favoring one of her legs, and her face had taken on the gray ashy look of impending magical exhaaustion. While Ron seemed to be out of focus entirely. Harry noticed that long red welts covered his face and throat.

He was about to ask what had happened when Luna spoke. "Ron won't be able to answer much questions at the moment. He was hit with a confundus charm and decided that 'accio brain things' was an acceptable response to the situation. Sadly, the aquavarius maggots got a hold of him, so his mind is a bit scattered right now.

Harry sighed, and then shot a thumb towards the back of the room where Neville was standing with the Warners. "Drag him over to Nev, and then stun him. We can't have him in the way, and Nev's already protecting a couple others."

Luna glanced that way and then smiled brightly. "Oh where ever did you find such adorable children at while running for your lives in this maze of office and research space?"

Again, Harry blinked. "They don't seem odd to you?"

"They look adorable to me," she replied.

Suddenly, Yakko was standing next to him, and smiling a bright, but sap filled, smile at Luna. "And I think you look like the next ex-Mrs. Warner."

Harry glanced at Yakko, and then sighed.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Just realized that this had been hiding here for...well a month and a half now...

**This Chapter:**

First in regards to this chapter... All I can say is that I loved the Animaniacs as a kid. And of course, they were recently put up on Netflix. My thought here was that pure bloods/wizarding-raised would see them, and I'm thinking all of the cartoon characters in that room, as regular looking kids. Kids who could do things that most people could not, thus why they were trapped in that room being studied. The DOM wants to know how they can summon large objects from behind their backs, and make portals with merely a bucket of paint. And the less said about Dot's pet the better.

**Last Chapter:**

Now, in regards to the last chapter. First, yes I know that Snape is a half-blood raised in the muggle world with a non-wizard father. That said, HARRY and company don't know that yet. This is set in 5th year and that little fact was not revealed until 6th. Additionally, the only reason that we know that Snape's dad is a muggle is because of the Daily Prophet-which as we know never lies. While I'm not saying that he's a wizard, what I'm saying is that he could have been a squib. I mean there has to be some way that Tobias and Eileen meet. As well as something to explain the misery in which Snape was raised.

But even above and beyond that, we know that the MoM will interpret and apply this law however they see fit. Snape is a Slytherin and a Death Eater, thus he won't be subject to the law. Wizarding Britain is a very autocratic and despotic country, even before Tom's takeover of the ministry. Voldemort would not be subject to the law, because in Wizarding Britain- might makes right.

Harry is thinking strategically about the law in regards to his fight with Tom, and the propaganda potential in releasing the fact that Tommy should be wearing a badge. He's doing so, because he still sees Tom as the big bad of the series, rather than Tom just being a symptom of a much larger problem. A problem that was not solved in the original series. And that's the whole might makes right concept. When Ron cursed the muggle driving examiner, he saw his actions as right, because he had the might to be able to curse the muggle to get what he wanted. And Harry - an AUROR MIND YOU - laughed.

A few additional points.

1) The bulk of the law text that I wrote was not based on the law as written in Germany in the 1930s related to the badges. But rather an older one. It's pulled from the Fourth Council of the Lateran from 1215 and the Synod of Narbonne from 1227. Please note that these were ecclesiastic "laws" and as such without any true legal weight or sanctions. But starting around 1228 real legal codes were enacted enforcing these ecclesiastic laws. Of specific note was in 1274 Edward I of England enacted such a law. And in fact a lot of these laws were still in place as laws until the 18th century. Basically, the Nazi's did not invent the yellow badge, just resurrected it. That said, some parts I did take from the Nazi laws: namely the bits about grandparents and the secondary comments about the "hereditary health of pureblood wizards" and "blood infamy."

2) I don't remember when I learned about WWII and the Holocaust during my school days. Those were many, many moons ago. I can tell you that my eldest son touched upon it in the 5th grade though, and that's at the 10-11 year old mark.


	43. Odeum Deleo

_Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. This very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be "cured" against one's will and cured of states which we may not regard as disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals._

_C.S. Lewis, "__God in the Dock: Essays on Theology__" _

* * *

The wood was a dark and foreboding; a lonely, desolate place that had felt and tasted death on a massive scale. Even after years, the scars of fire and dark magic tainted the ground and the trees. Even the air hung heavy and dark and etched with a tang of poison and misery. One oak tree in particular seemed to dominate everything around, even as it twisted in and around itself as if the things it had witnessed in its decades of life had ground it into something less than the majestic crown of the forest it was supposed to be.

A flicker of almost motion twisted the air in front of the old oak tree; an event, a motion, without reason, one that was outside of causality. It was a twisting of space that was both utterly unnatural and filled with a interior sense of rightness. A rightness that seemed to scream that the only way to display almost motion was in this particular twisty way.

A moment later, a woman seemed to twirl herself out of that almost motion. One battered boot stepped forward as she turned that tumbling twist into a simple series of steps. Aged, wearied, brown eyes flickered around the area, even as she hunkered down into a ready position, one leg slightly forward of the other. Her body trembled with the ready coiled tenseness of a runner waiting for the shot. One hand held a simple metal torch, its light already glowing brightly in the gloom of the wood, while the other hand held a thin, ornately carved stick. That hand was wrenched back, her wrist twisted slightly by her ear; everything about it held tense and taut as if she was ready to fling the stick forward at a moment's notice.

Thirty seconds pass.

Her body stilled. She took in a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. While loosing none of the tense readiness that gripped her, a sense of otherness rippled across her. Half-closed eyes seemed to weigh everything around her.

Then another thirty seconds.

Finally, her whole body, everything about her posture, slumped, releasing the tension an the coiled readiness to spring away. Her shoulders slouched down even as she straightened her body. The hand with the stick absently swatted at the uncontrolled brown curls of her hair, swiping them from her face. Her torch made wide sweeping motions across the ground at the base of the oak tree.

With a methodicalness at some odds with the appearance of her rough, worn, and patched clothes, she searched the ground around the tree for something. After the first hour, she dropped to her hands and knees, and continued her search. Always keeping that tree in the center of things.

Just as the light of the rising sun started twisting its way through the branches of the trees above her, she let out a trembling sigh. She swung back onto her haunches, and discarded the torch even as her hand lifted up a small stone into the light. The stone glinted in the morning rays, shining and twisting with reflected sun; the symbol that was carved deeply into one face of the stone seemed to be glowing with that fire of a new day. It was a distinctly odd reaction for a stone that at first glance was composed entirely of onyx.

And with that stone in hand, age appeared to fall away from the girl. Relief seemed to melt the stress lines of her face. The harsh tense set to the shoulders flowed away, leaving her looking unbearably young and lonely.

Her hand closed tightly over the stone, and she manipulated it inside of her palm, causing it to flip over three times. All the while, thinking of the one person who might have the answers to what had gone wrong. Who might possibly know where everything fell apart. And most importantly, maybe, just maybe, have the solution to fix things for them all, once again.

"Hello, Miss Granger."

The breathy voice caused her eyes to snap open, and she found herself staring at her former headmaster. He was almost solid. A wavering feeling of not there seemed to twist at the edges of his appearance, but he appeared more substantial, more real, than any ghost or spirit that she had previously met. She allowed a sigh to escape her mouth, and she slumped slightly in relief that the stone had worked.

"Hello, Professor. If you don't mind, I've got a few questions."

Amusement filled the old man's voice. "It seems that I've got plenty of time on my hands. Death, and the resulting loss of jobs, tends to free ones time most wonderfully."

She sat at the base of the tree, leaned against, it and wiped her face with her free hand. Another long moment of silence stretched between the two.

"I..." Hermione paused, and licked her chapped lips. Uncertainty twisted her features for a moment. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"Well, how about you tell me the situation that brought you to look for the stone and me."

"It's... it's Harry."

"Harry?" There was an odd tremor in the old man's voice. A ghost of pain and disquiet, a twisting of concern. "He's... he's not doing things that are dark is he? I'm not sure that the Wizarding World could survive after everything Tom did if Harry went Dark."

The laughter that greeted that question appeared to shock the old man. It was a laugh laced with dark emotion and cut with the harsh edge of a cackle; an almost broken sound, that seemed to lack any warmth or true humor.

After a few moments, she seemed to laughed herself out, and composed herself. Her eyes glittered with that same, broken amusement as she looked at the shade. "No. Harry's not gone dark. Far, far from it."

She paused as she glanced around, as if sensing something.

Dumbledore drew her attention again. "Then why did you seek me out? I'm aware that you know what happened to Cadmus Peverell and his use of the Stone."

"Tell me professor, did you ever happen across the muggle book 'Utopia' by Thomas More?"

"I do not believe I have had the pleasure."

"It tells the story of a traveler who comes across an island which was a part of the New World. A island with no private property. Shared goods. No locks on the doors of homes or any building, and those homes rotated between citizens every ten years. All must work, and all must learn. Free health care. Free goods to meet your needs. Everyone wears the same clothes, and even a strict morality that is enforced."

Dumbledore frowned slightly. "It does seem like a lovely description of things."

She shook her head. "Maybe. But there was also no travel. No-one owned anything. Everyone wore the same simple clothes. Slavery was an oft used punishment for the breaking of trivial laws. Less trivial laws were all of a capital nature. People were told how to dress, where to work, on what to work, and even where to live. "

The frown tightened more, but he replied with nothing.

Hermione continued speaking. "All of that loss. Privacy. Private property. Individuality. And even life. That destruction of everything that makes a person a distinct individual, all ground under the heel of the state, and the collective whole. As long as someone did not struggle or did not think in a way that was contrary to those who ruled, life was fruitful. For anyone and everyone else, it could be construed a tyranny more dark and destructive as anything a mere Dark Lord could dream of creating."

"Surely things cannot be that bad?"

She shook her head. "Even after all theses years of being dead, you hear, but you do not listen. Harry rules everything and everyone with a silk-gloved, iron fist. We all survive, but none of us can soar. There's no hate, to hate is to be punished. But there is also no love, for that leads to jealousy. Which leads to suffering. He dictates every aspect of our lives, ensuring that we all live in perfect harmony and peace."

Dumbledore shook his head. "That cannot be. I made sure he could not go Dark."

Hermione's eyes flashed with something dark and harsh. For a moment, an expression flickered across her face, an emotion that would leave no one doubting that she was the most dangerous witch of her generation. And possibly of several to come.

"And just how did you do that?" Her voice was low and angry, an almost hiss.

Dumbledore sighed. "There was a spell, used quite often when I was young, designed for the purpose of brokering negotiations between families in the midst of blood feuds or worse. It binds away a person's hate, allowing for clear thinking and love during the negotiating process."

Hermione blinked, as she considered the information. Applying things she hard read back in Fifth Year while Harry was undergoing the Occulmancy training. Considerations. Thoughts. Things she knew about Dumbledore and his 'plans' and the things she had read in various books then and since. "That was your reason? That was why you had Snape train Harry in Occulmancy? Despite the danger to your spy if he was seen by Voldemort in Harry's head. Some other Occulmancy trainer would have seen this spell, and broken it."

She glared at Dumbledore, wondering if he'd deny the accusation. Not too terribly surprised when he did not.

"What was the incantation?"

"Now, Miss Grange-"

"Tell me now." She barked out in interruption, as she squeezed slightly on the stone. To her surprise, the old man winced and griped at his chest. She stared at the shade for a moment, and then looked down at the stone. She blinked twice and then looked back up.

He breathed heavily. "_Odeum Deleo_."

"That... that spell becomes permanent after a year. It becomes entrenched in the mind, changing... when? When did you do this to him?"

"When he was three. I noticed that one of the emotional tracking tools I had linked to Harry showed that he was feeling a number of the darker emotions. I knew that that was too young to feel such things, and that I could not have the next Leader of the Light to be embracing those emotions. So I cast the spell on him then."

"Did you ever take it off?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, it would fade within five years of my death though."

She looked at him, shock and horror etched across her features. "You're an utter imbecile. You know that right?"

Dumbledore blinked. "That's no way to speak to you-"

"Shut it old man. You really have no idea what you've done. You tinkered with Harry's emotions at a fundamental level. Hate's not an emotion that just hangs out in one part of someone's mind, unrelated to anything and everything else. It's smack dab in the middle of a person's brain, touching on everything from love, to being able to make meaningful, decisions and judgment calls.

"Instead of resolving the situation where a young boy was being abused, and consequently thinking those 'dark' thoughts about himself and his relatives, you ripped his mind apart, and then left it to heal that way. And worse, you have no idea what that spell could do to someone's mind when they're going through puberty, or the stress of fighting a war.

"I had hoped that it was something that we could have fixed. That maybe it was something that Snape had done. That there was some solution or thing that could be done to fix Harry and just... everything. But there's not. You've ensured that everything that makes us a unique society will die out. I had hoped that my friend, the boy that I had loved, could have been brought back. I've been struggling against his controls for so long... hoping. But..."

A lone tear sliced down her face. A counterpoint to the horror and despair that sat heavily on her shoulders and clouded her eyes. Even her hair appeared to wilt and lay lank and almost flat.

"But there's no hope, is there?"

She stared while waiting for a response, she was certain was not coming. She stared. Stared at the shade of Dumbledore. The after image of a flawed, and failed man. One that even at that moment, still could not see what he had done wrong.

Some nameless something seemed to snap. A break that could not be heard, nor felt, but was sensed all the same. Slowly all of Hermione's emotions, all that weight that seemed to grind into her shoulders, seemed to flow off of her. It slid away. A motion which took away everything; leaving her eyes a cold brown blankness.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, had lost all the animation, all the emotion. It was a voice which had lost all those little inflections that told a story as much, if not more so, than the words that were actually spoken. It was a toneless sound, both flat and lifeless. There was no hate. No anger. No recrimination But there was no love either. No joy. No warmth or happiness. It was cold, and impersonal and filled only with total indifference. To everything.

"Congratulations Professor, you've destroyed Magical Britain. You've destroyed us all, and all of it was done for your Greater Good."

* * *

**A/N: I hate to say it, but this was based off my response to a quite lovely story (if sadly unfinished). Mad Mad Reviewer's (u/699762) "Elsewhere, but not Elsewhen" (s/7118223) has a minor plot point that Harry is subjected to mind magics which restrict his ability to feel hate. A spell that was laid on him as a baby by Dumbledore. This was supposedly done in an effort to keep Harry from developing the darker emotions that could lead him down the path of the 'Dark Side.' **

**And while that's fine and dandy for a fake religion in a soap opera, to me that screams of serious mental issues. **

**And does nothing to solve the potential problem of a broken child destroying the world. **

**Of course, this is a very typical 'wizarding' response in the vein of J.K.'s wizards. Why solve a problem, when one can magic up a band-aid and cover up one of the symptoms? **


End file.
